Lacy cuts in. “And I was your servant, Little Miss Puddin’ Head.”
I can’t help but laugh. You have to admit it’s a funny name, but I guess it wasn’t so funny to her at the time.
“The point is,” I say, “how many fifteen-year-old boys are going to go out of their way to play games just to entertain their little sisters. And what happens? Grandma has to go and ruin the whole thing by throwing a fit all over us.”
“You stole her lawn gnome and tossed it off the Twelfth Street bridge.”
“Well, that’s the kind of thing that happens to people who treat you like crap.”
Just for the record, here’s what happened with the lawn gnome incident. We were on one of our rare visits to Grandma’s—I was about nine—and Grandma confiscated my skates from me for skating in her kitchen. Took them and said she wasn’t giving them back till I left the next day. This was back when I thought I wanted to be in the roller derby, so those skates meant a lot to me.
Anyway, I got the idea to kidnap her lawn gnome and hold him hostage. Of course, Bobby thought this was hilarious and volunteered to help me carry him across the Twelfth Street bridge, where we could stash him behind the grade school. Then we’d lay out the deal to Grandma—she’d get the gnome if I got the skates.
But on the way, Bobby had the idea it would be funny to set the gnome on the bridge railing and pretend he was about to commit suicide.
“Don’t jump, little fella,” Bobby said, standing back like he was afraid to make any sudden moves. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll save him,” I cried, and lunged for the gnome. Only instead of pulling him back to safety, I accidentally pushed him over the edge. Crash! There he was in a million little gnome pieces on the concrete below. I guess we were lucky a car wasn’t driving under the bridge at the time.
At that point, I was all for running away, but Bobby said we had to stay and clean the thing up, then take the shattered corpse back to Grandma and tell her we’d pay for a new one. I didn’t like the sound of that, but I always did what Bobby said.
The problem was Lacy found out what happened and went running off to squeal to Grandma before we could explain things for ourselves. Of course, Grandma didn’t believe it was a mistake. She accused Bobby of killing her stupid gnome on purpose. And he didn’t even do it—I did!
He took the full blame, though, said I didn’t have anything to do with it, but Grandma didn’t want to hear any explanations. She told us we were just nothing but mean kids and that she shouldn’t be surprised with the way our father raised us. That didn’t sit well with Bobby.
“You’re the one who’s mean,” he said. “Taking a little girl’s skates away for no good reason. You’re just a mean, dried-up old woman.”
That’s when Grandma called him impertinent and slapped him. Pow! Right across the mouth.
“Go ahead and hit me again,” he said, staring her down. “Hit me as much as you want. But don’t badmouth my sister and my father.”
Grandma’s hand trembled, her lips quivered, her eye twitched, but she didn’t hit him again. She never told our parents about the situation either. I don’t know why. But after that, Bobby and I made every excuse we could to avoid going back to her house.
“And you know what?” I tell Lacy over the phone. “There never would’ve been a big problem if you hadn’t squealed on us to Grandma.”
“Well,” she says, “the only reason I told on you was because you wouldn’t let me go to the bridge with you.”
I had forgotten that part, but it was true. She had begged us to let her go on our gnome adventure.
“Well,” I tell her, “how could we let you go? You were crying like a baby. We didn’t want some little baby going with us.”
“I cried because I wanted to hang out with you. That’s all I wanted when I was little—to hang out with my big sister. But I gave up. You didn’t want me, so I just gave up.”
“And you’re giving up on Bobby now too. Is that it?”
“I’m not giving up, Ceejay. I just can’t come home right now. I just can’t. Bobby will still be there in a month when Grandma’s better, but right now she needs me and Bobby doesn’t.”
I sit quiet for a moment, staring at the wall. What a sister. Her whole life the parents played her as the favorite, and now she’s trying to act like she’s the one nobody wants. Well, if that’s the way she wants it, that’s the way she’ll get it. “You’re right,” I tell her. “He doesn’t need you around. And neither do I.”
Before she can cough out a response, I hang up on her. Usually I’d say that makes me the winner, but somehow, this time, I don’t really feel like I won much of anything.
23
On the big day, even though there are a lot of preparations to take care of before the party kicks off, Bobby heads out somewhere with Chuck, saying he’ll be back in plenty of time. Mom acts like that’s okay. She says she wouldn’t dream of putting him to work. After all, the party is for him. But as the time for the party gets closer, I catch her glancing at the clock, her usual perky smile still on her face but worry in her eyes. Finally, with about ten minutes to spare, Bobby and Chuck reappear. They’ve been taking care of their own preparations—making sure they have an enormous blue ice chest fully stocked with beer.
Pretty soon people start packing into the house and backyard. They’re everywhere. Our place really isn’t big enough for a crowd like this—uncles, aunts, cousins, church people, Grandma and Grandpa McDermott. My parents have all their friends there, and so do my big sister Colleen, her husband, and Drew. Tillman, Gillis, and Brianna all show up together. But out of everyone there, Chuck is the only one Bobby asked to come.
Before Iraq, a party like this wouldn’t have fazed Bobby. He would’ve had his whole rowdy bunch here with him. Probably would’ve pulled some crazy stunt just to see the looks on the church people’s faces. Like the time he and his buddies painted themselves red and ran through the middle of a church picnic wearing only their underwear. Now, as one person after the next comes at him with their fat smiles and handshakes, he just stands there like a dazed boxer soaking up punches.
Me, I don’t get much of a chance to talk to him, so I’m glad to have my close circle with me. Otherwise it’d be easy to feel very, very purple in an all-yellow world. Of course, I’m always glad to see Uncle Jimmy. He’s having a great time. Bobby and Chuck have been generous in sharing their beer with him. He sidles up to me by the backyard flowerbed and nudges my arm. “So,” he says, “I guess your little sister is still in Davenport taking care of your Grandma Brinker, huh?”
I tell him that she is, and he goes, “That’s good. That way your mom can stay down here and keep your dad away from Diane Simmons.”
This is the second time Uncle Jimmy has hinted that Diane Simmons, the church lady who comes by with food while Mom visits Grandma, has her sights set on Dad. And this is the second time I tell him he’s crazy for thinking that.
“Really?” he says. “Well, check that out.” He nods toward where my dad is standing. Ms. Simmons is about two inches away from him, waving her boobs around. Dad says something and she laughs and touches his arm. I look around for Mom. She must be in the house.
“I tried a little flirting with her myself a while ago,” Uncle Jimmy says. “And I’ve been known to work a lot of magic in that department over the years, but not this time. I’m thinking your dad’s already put a spell on her.”
“I can’t see my dad having anything to do with any spells.”
“You didn’t know him back in the day.”
“Yeah, but I know him now. She can flash her cleavage all she wants, and he’s probably not thinking of anything but the next joke he’s planning to tell.”
“You’re probably right,” Uncle Jimmy says, but you can tell he doesn’t mean it.
Across the lawn, Ms. Simmons laughs again. Dad’s smiling like he’s running for office. “Of course I’m right,” I say,
but I’m not so convinced this time.
As the afternoon unwinds, I’m surprised Bobby’s hands don’t turn blue from frostbite after reaching into the ice chest for so many beers. Drinking doesn’t seem to do him a whole lot of good, though, not like it does for Chuck, who is practically glowing. You’d think this party is for him. He’s flirting with the middle-aged ladies, talking football with the middle-aged men, making children giggle, and he still has time to wrap his arm around Bobby’s neck every once in a while and say how glad he is to have his old buddy back in town.
I can see why girls fall for him. He may be the most irresponsible guy on the planet, but responsibility is beside the point when you’re around him. There’s nothing in the world to worry about. Life is shiny. It’s as weightless as an astronaut. No wonder Bobby chose to stay with him instead of here at home.
Finally, Bobby has all he can take of the cheery faces, nagging questions, and happy backslaps. He disappears. Mom asks me to go see if he’s upstairs and get him to come back down. “I’m sure he’s pretty tired,” she says. Tired being her way of saying drunk. “But it’s almost time to put the food on. He’ll feel better with a little something in his stomach.”
Upstairs, I find him lying on my bed listening to one of his old CDs. I’ve kept it on the shelf while he was away and played it every once in a while to remember him by. He opens his eyes and, seeing it’s only me, he smiles. “Ceejay,” he says. “My super-stupendous best sister. Have you come to rescue me from myself?”
“Mom sent me.” I sit on the side of the bed. “She wants you to come back down. It’s almost time to eat.”
“Okay,” he says. “I knew I couldn’t get away with hiding for long, but it’s so damn weird down there. Just let me listen to this next song.”
The song he’s talking about is called “Emerald Soul.” It’s loud, the kind of song that scrapes all the negative feelings out of your shoulder blades. He listens to it with his eyes closed and his hands folded across his stomach. When it winds down, he sits up and looks at me.
“That’s my favorite song,” he says. “I remember one time Mona and I were walking down the street, and we heard that song playing out of someone’s open window. It was perfect—like the soundtrack for how bright the sun was and the sound of the breeze shaking in the leaves. It was playing just for me. I was in the exact right place at the right time.” He looks toward the window as if maybe he could see that moment again if he tried hard enough. “Man,” he says, looking back at the floor. “Where did moments like that go? They’re gone. You can’t get them back. Now it’s like I’m always in the wrong place at the wrong time, and there isn’t any right place to be anyway.”
“You’ll get them back,” I tell him.
“I just want to turn off the radar. I just want to drown it out.”
“The radar?”
“That’s what it feels like over there. Like you’ve always got to have your radar on. You have to watch everything every second. You have to listen for it. You have to feel it with your whole body. If you don’t, the fucking universe will cave in on you. Even with the people here you feel like you have to look at every face, every movement. I just want to turn it off.”
I put my hand on his arm. “There won’t be stupid parties like this every weekend. Just wait. You’ll get settled in and then everything will go back to normal. Maybe you could get your own little rent house and I could come and live with you.”
“Maybe.” He smiles at me, but it’s the smile an old man might give a little kid for saying something sweet and naive. “Okay,” he says, clapping his hands, “time to stop my sorry bullshit and go back down to work the coal mine.”
Once we’re in the backyard again, he seems almost rejuvenated, even manages a smile here and there. Mom comes over, clasps his arm and leans her head onto his shoulder. She’s beaming. Uncle Jimmy takes a picture of them with his cell-phone camera, and at the last second Chuck jumps in and kisses my mom on the cheek. She swats him on the arm, but you can tell she loves him if for no other reason than that she knows he loves Bobby.
Finally, the time comes to fire up the backyard grill. This is really Dad’s chance to play the star. His red cap says COOKOUT KING across the front and his apron reads HOT DOG! The grill is a stainless steel Weber with all sorts of accessories. Top of the line. Dad takes a couple of spatulas and a set of tongs and juggles them before he starts slapping the food on. There’s trays of meat next to him—burger patties, hot links, chicken breasts. I guarantee none of the men will touch the chicken.
Mom’s in the kitchen working on side dishes, so who do you think decides to play assistant chef? Ms. Simmons. I’m starting to believe Uncle Jimmy isn’t crazy after all. Not that I think Dad’s up to anything with those giant boobs of hers, but it’s all too obvious she’s ready to serve them up whenever he’s ready.
I’m standing in my little group with Bobby, Brianna, Gillis, and Tillman, who’s made it clear he’s bent out of shape because we had to cancel our paintball game for the party.
“Look at old Ms. Simmons flashing her girls at Dad,” I say. “Think she’s horny much?”
Gillis stares at her. “I don’t care how old she is,” he says. “I’d stick my face down in the middle of those things and not come up for air for a week.”
“You’re sick,” says Brianna.
A worried expression crosses Bobby’s face, but it doesn’t have anything to do with Ms. Simmons’ boobs. “Jesus,” he says. “What is that?”
“What?” I say.
“That smell. What’s that goddamn smell?”
I’m like, “I don’t know. You mean the burgers grilling?”
“Get me out of here,” he says. It’s not worry on his face now. It’s that same mix of panic and rage he had that night the captain’s hammer pounding startled him.
“Turn that smell off,” he cries. “Turn it off. I think I’m gonna puke.”
He heads toward the house, shoving guests out of the way as he goes. “Turn that smell off!”
I’m chasing after him and everyone’s staring like we’re both crazy. He has trouble getting the patio door open and when he finally does, he lunges inside, and then it’s like his legs melt and he collapses onto his knees.
I’m at his side. “What’s wrong, Bobby?”
“Shut the door,” he says, his face pale and his lips sagging like he really might puke. “Shut the fucking door, so I don’t have to smell that.”
Everyone inside is gaping at him. Someone mutters, “Looks like he drank a little bit too much.”
I pull on his arm. “Let me help you up. We’ll get you upstairs.”
His arm trembles as I help him upstairs and he gulps for air. “I want to lie down,” he says. “I want to lock the goddamn door.”
I no sooner get him into my room than Mom and Dad follow us in.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asks. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, helping Bobby sit on the bed. “He’s just worn out.”
“Too many beers,” Dad says. He looks Bobby over like he’s sizing up some kind of repair job he’s getting ready to work on. “We’ll get a burger into him and he’ll be all right. Ceejay, go get some aspirin.”
I look at Bobby to see if that’s what he wants, but he’s like, “I don’t need any aspirin. And I sure as hell don’t need any of that burning meat.”
Mom says, “Maybe a chicken breast would be better.” And Bobby goes, “No, I don’t want a chicken breast either. I don’t even want to get near anything off that grill.”
“Hey,” says Dad, “that grill’s practically new.”
Mom’s like, “Just a nice chicken breast and maybe some cold fruit.”
I can’t believe it—the parents can be so dense. They have no idea they should just let me and Bobby alone right now.
“Aren’t you listening?” Bobby pleads. And then he says something really strange. “I don’t want any of that stuff. It smells like you’re burning human
flesh down there.”
Dad laughs. He actually laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Those burger patties are from good old American cows. We’re not cooking any humans around here.”
Bobby stares at Dad for a moment, his face drained of color. “You don’t get it,” he says. “You haven’t smelled burning human flesh before, but I have. It gets in you. It smokes your lungs and your brain and you can cough and cough and you can’t get the ashes out.”
That’s something I’ve never thought of—the way a burning person would smell. It’s almost enough to make you sick just thinking about it.
Mom sits on the bed next to him and pats his back. “All right, honey,” she says. “You don’t have to go back outside. Just come down to the kitchen and we’ll fix you up a cold-cut sandwich.”
“No, we won’t,” Dad says. He’s all serious and take-command now, trying too hard at being a big tough-love dad. “Listen, son, I know you’ve been through some bad things, but there’s a lot of people who have come to see you down there. Now, I didn’t say anything when you started putting beers away one after the next—I liked my beer when I was a young man too—but I’m not going to let you disappoint your family and friends because of the way something smells. So get off your butt and come back down there and be the hometown hero these folks came to see.”
“Hometown hero, huh?” Bobby glares at Dad. “Is that what I’m supposed to be? Well, let me tell you what kind of hometown hero I am.”
He stands and looks Dad in the eye. There’s something in Bobby’s face, something in his voice, that makes me dread what he’s going to say.
“You want to know why I’m home early?” he asks without waiting for an answer. “It’s because the army kicked me out, that’s why. They don’t want me, don’t want a single thing to do with me. That’s how much of a hero I am.”