Rumble
Page 22
I thought he was a psycho,
not a psychic. What does he see?
You’re tense as a new grunt on
perimeter patrol. What’s up?
Like it’s any of his business?
Still, I offer, “Guess I’m kind
of pissed at the world right now.”
He smiles. I know the feeling.
You here blowing off steam?
Not really his business, either.
Still, “Some of that, yeah. That,
and maybe plotting revenge.”
It’s supposed to be funny, but
the not-joke thuds between us.
He thinks a moment, then says,
You know how they say revenge
is best served up cold? I’d say
it’s best not served up at all.
Revenge is a great motivator,
but it doesn’t help achieve
the desired results. I’ve seen
guys lose buddies, then go
off half-cocked, piss fuel
running through their veins.
Things never turned out well.
He’s So Rational
I can hardly believe
it’s the same guy who
was freaking out over
a misfire a few weeks ago.
I could argue that I was
kidding, I’m not out for
revenge, hot or cold.
But I’m finished arguing.
“Thanks, Gus. I’ll keep
that in mind. Maybe next
week we can have a rematch?
I’ll try not to come pissed.”
Easier said than done,
buddy. But sure, always
up for a little competition.
And by the way, when all
else fails, go for a run.
Hard to stay mad when
you’re breathing hard.
Oxygen, that’s the ticket.
I should get more exercise.
“I’ll remember that, too.”
The Glock
Needs a good clean, so I go
in search of Uncle Jessie,
who’s got both supplies and
expertise. He sets me up at
a table in the office, demonstrates
how to fieldstrip the gun,
breaking it down into its major
components—barrel, slide, guide
rod, frame, and magazine. Keep
those safety glasses on, now.
The last thing any living person
needs is to get solvent in their
eyes. You don’t want to end up
looking like me, do you?
He watches me brush the bore
of the barrel, then run patches
through till they come out residue-
free. It’s a long process, and people
start to trickle in. No Dad, though.
By the time the Glock is cleaned,
lubricated, and reassambled,
I’m starting to notice something.
“Hey, Uncle Jessie. Do you feel okay?”
He’s sucking in short, shallow breaths.
Actually, no. My jaw aches, and
I’m having a hard time finding
air. Must be coming down with
a bug or something. But I can’t
leave. Quin’s in Eugene and there
are all these people. . . .
“I’ll take over.” He looks like death,
and I’ve got nothing better to do.
“The counter is pretty straightforward,
and if something unusual comes up,
I’ll give you a call. Go rest. Kick
that bug before it really gets you.”
He hesitates. The Turner men
do not easily relinquish control.
But then he winces, and whatever
caused that makes him decide, Okay.
Been thinking about an employee.
Why not you? I’ll even pay you.
He gives basic instructions: Most
everyone is a member. Drop-in
costs for those who aren’t. Services
menu. Anything else can wait a few
days. Chase everyone out by five.
Lock up and bring me the keys.
I Trade Him
The building keys
for my truck key.
“You drive up that hill.
I’ll walk it. Gus says
I need more exercise.”
He manages to wheeze
out a laugh. Since when
are you listening to
what Gus has to say?
“Since he started
saying stuff that makes
sense. So, go home and
chill. Have a big glass
of NyQuil or something.
I’ve got this covered.”
And I do. It’s a slow
but steady day, customer-
wise. No surprises. No
unanswerable questions.
Nothing I can’t handle.
At Least, Until
Gus comes storming through the door.
Unceremoniously, he tosses Uncle
Jessie’s pistol onto the counter.
“Hey, that’s empty, right?” Last thing
I need is a renegade bullet going
through the wall and hitting a customer.
Shit, yeah, he spits. I may be ugly,
but I ain’t stupid. Where’s Jessie?
Now it’s Gus who’s on edge, as
evidenced by his concrete shoulders.
Defusion may be necessary. “Uh,
he’s a little under the weather,
so he went home. Can I help you
with something? I’m ugly and stupid,
but I’ll do my best.” The sorry attempt
at humor seems to relax him a little.
Nah. Nothing you can do. I got
a shitty call from my ex is all.
Bitch wants to deny me visitation.
They’re my kids, too, goddamn it!
His face is the color of cherries,
and his temples are visibly thumping.
Jessie said he knows a lawyer
who might cut a vet some slack.
I’m half thinking his ex might have
valid reasons. But what I say is,
“That sucks, man. How old are
your kids?” Why am I asking?
Sixteen, fourteen, and twelve.
I wasn’t around much when they
were little. I don’t want them to
forget who their dad is, you know?
Even when my dad’s home, he’s
not really around, so yeah, I get it.
“I’ll see Uncle Jessie a little later.
I’ll be sure and have him call you.”
Everyone Has Vacated
The place by four thirty,
so I lock up at five on the nose,
hike up the hill to the old farmhouse,
fighting mud and incline.
I’m wheezing a fair amount
myself by the time I reach
the front door. “Uncle Jessie?”
I call as I go in, mostly to warn
Curly, Mo, and Larry, who might
not appreciate a surprise visitor,
if they happen to be inside. But no,
no sloppy pit-bull greetings.
Jessie’s on the living room couch,
beneath a blanket, watching hockey.
“No basketball?” I set his keys
quite obviously on the coffee
table, so he’ll know where
to look when he wants them.
Nah. Basketball was always
your dad’s sport. Not rough
enough for me. I want to see blood.
“I asked Dad to stop by after
he dropped off his girlfriend.
Guess he got tied up. Hell
, maybe
he’s got her tied up.” Another joke
bites the dust. Uncle Jessie doesn’t
laugh, but he does turn his attention
toward me, curiosity in his eyes.
“You didn’t know about her?
It’s been going on for a while.”
He shakes his head. Wyatt and
I haven’t talked in a good
many months. Doesn’t surprise
me much, though. In case you
haven’t noticed, men
aren’t monogamous by nature.
Pretty sure there’s a subtle
accusation to the statement,
but I’m not in the mood
to discuss my own relationships,
or lack thereof. “Oh really?
Does that include you?”
Hell no. Zero hesitation. Matt,
I’m a solitary soul. Quin’s more
than enough company for me.
Anyway, she never gave up
on me when everyone else
figured I’d probably croak.
And she stood right by my side
when I came home a one-eyed
freak. Wouldn’t be right, running
around on a woman like that.
Risk losing her for a shot
of poontang? Not on your life!
“Why didn’t you marry her
then? Afraid you might change
your mind down the line?”
No. I was afraid she might, and
I wanted her to be free to leave
if she wanted. I wasn’t a great catch.
Wrong, soldier. In my opinion,
you were an amazing catch.
It’s Quin, back from Eugene.
In Simultaneous Measure
I flush with relief—
didn’t want to leave
Uncle Jessie here alone—
and concern overtakes
Quin, who scurries to
the sofa. Are you sick?
Her fingers probe
his forehead for fever.
“He thinks he’s coming
down with a bug. I told him
to get off his feet for a while.
Who knew he’d actually listen?”
Bug schmug. It’s nothing
a goddamn score couldn’t fix.
Come on, Kings. The requisite
implied exclamation point
is totally missing. Quin
decides not to mention it,
instead asks me, What’s up
with you? No girlfriends today?
“Nope,” I snort.
Not even one.
I Decline
Quin’s obligatory
dinner invitation.
Mention Gus’s request
for a number to call.
Remind them where
I left the office keys.
Give Quin a big hug,
beg off giving Jessie
one, too. He’s gracious.
Nobody needs a damn bug.
Truck key’s in the ignition.
See you next week. Pause.
Sorry about your father.
Hope your mom’s okay.
“Thanks. I hope so, too.”
She is on my mind all
the way home. Truthfully,
I have no idea how she is.
No Groceries
No Dad. No Lorelei, at least.
I’m one hundred percent
starving, but before I raid
my piggy bank and head off
into the rainy night in search
of cheap sustenance, I give
Mom a call. She seems surprised
to hear from me, adding more
guilt to the pile I’m already
suffocating beneath. “I miss
you. Just wondering when
you’re coming home.” I already
suspect her answer, but still
it’s like diving into ice water
when she tells me she’s not.
I thought your father would
have told you by now. What
would I do in Cottage Grove
but wallow in resentment?
Wyatt is determined to start
over. I have no choice but to
move on, too. I can stay here
with Sophie and Shawn as long
as I need to. Your grandparents
are getting older, and I’ll be
closer to them. My church is here,
and it’s brought me a lot of comfort.
On a brighter note, Sophie and I
have been talking. When we were
kids, we used to play dress-up and
fantasize about designer clothes.
We’ve decided to open a little
boutique in Eugene. I’m tired
of real estate, and I’ve got a nest
egg saved up. It’s all in, baby.
A boutique? Like Eugene’s a raving
fashionista scene. Whatever, I guess.
At least she’s got a dream. “The last
time we talked about this, you said
you couldn’t let Dad win.”
I’ve rethought the definition
of winning. He’s stuck in the past,
and there’s a lot of sadness there.
I’m moving forward. It has to be better.
She Asks
About school, but is certain
I’m maintaining my grades.
As far as she knows,
I have nothing else
to worry about.
I tell her all’s well.
She asks if I’m being
faithful to Martha—okay, if
I’m faithfully attending our
sessions.
I lie and say of course.
She does not query me
about “that girl,” or if we’re using
protection. Maybe she’s aware
that we’ve broken up.
Maybe Hayden is in her friends network.
By the time we hang up,
I know a lot more about how
Mom is.
She still doesn’t know jack about me.
It’s a Bittersweet Ending
To a totally
unpleasant weekend.
Hurray for holidays!
Can I get a woot-woot?
I’ve lost my appetite,
but considering I’ve had four
frozen waffles and an omelette
in two days, I conjure the energy
for a trip to Subway. When I get back,
Dad’s in the kitchen putting
away three bags of groceries.
Milk. Beer. Peanut butter.
Bread. Definite bachelor fare.
I help with the cans—fruit,
soup, beans, chili—and cereal.
At least he took a stab
at the four food groups.
We work in silence,
afraid we’ll say too much
if we open our mouths.
When we’re finished, I offer up
a single word. “Thanks.”
You’re welcome.
It’s the Most We Say
To each other all week,
which proves to be a tough
one. I swear, I see Hayden
around school more now
than I ever did when I went
looking for her. One or more
Biblette is always with her,
and it’s usually Jocelyn. If
she turns that haughty bitch
glare at me one more time,
I’m liable to go ballistic.
It’s all I can do to keep walking.
Midterms are coming up, so
every class is choked with
monotonous reviews, totally
unnecessary unless you didn’t
pay attention the first time. I did.
M
ore than once, I’m called out
for zoning while a teacher is
talking. Every time I mutter
a lukewarm “sorry” when I want
to scream, “Teach us something
new for cripe’s sake, or stop
pretending to be a fucking teacher!”
I Do Keep
My appointment with Martha.
Not to talk about Luke or Hayden
or any new revelations there,
but to discuss my parents’ pending
divorce. “Mom moved out a few
weeks ago. She’s not coming back.”
How do you feel about that?
“Like my life’s being methodically
ripped into ever smaller pieces.”
That’s quite descriptive. Poetic, even.
But this isn’t really a surprise, is it?
“Well . . . I mean, I knew they had
problems, but didn’t expect them to
become so permanently unattached.
And I had no idea about Dad’s girlfriend.”
How do you feel about her?
“She had no right to be screwing Dad
while they were married to other people.”
Do you think that was the root
cause of your parents’ problems?
“I don’t know. But Lorelei made it
easier for Dad not to want to fix them.”
How do you feel about that?
“Stop asking how I feel! Deserted.
Neglected. Unwanted. Unloved.”
Is that different from how you felt
before your mom moved out?
Thud. Great fucking question.
“Probably not a lot.” I hate Martha.
What about Hayden?
I did not. Come here. To talk. About
her. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
You told me you feel unloved,
but she loves you, right?
She’s either psychic or good at fishing.
“Not anymore. Not for a while.”
And So We Arrive
At the heart of my overwhelming
feeling of loss. My parents
split emotionally years ago.
Intellectually, they were probably
never joined. Had they gone
their separate ways before Luke’s
death, he and I would have been
like any kids faced with their parents’
divorce. Sad, yes. Angry, probably.
But we would have learned to cope
with it. Instead, both my parents
and my so-called girlfriend waited
until after Luke died to leave me.
Martha wormed all that out of me,
because she’s excellent at her job.
What she can’t tell me, however,