Read Off the Rack Page 5

Other folks came out and shuffled around jokin ‘bout what they'd seen but David and I just stood there, all quiet like. I never seen him so serious.

  David's head was bowed and he studied his shoes. He slowly lifted his head and looked me in the eyes and said real quiet like, “Mae Ella, I don't want to ever think or talk about that. Ever Ever, Ok? That just wadn't right.”

  “I know. Me neither. Pinky promise?”

  “Pinky promise.” We latched pinkies and the headed back toward the livestock booths. There were still the same ole songs playin, the same voices lifted in laughter, an rides spinning their colored lights but it all seemed far off. Together but apart we walked toward the booths as slowly as we could. Somehow it didn't seem right to just go back to our normal God-fearin lives. Not after seein’ them freaks.

  “Hey. You wanna get a candy apple? I still got half a dollar and we could get one ‘n’ split it and still ride the Ferris wheel.” David held out two coins in his hand, proud to still have somethin left.

  “That's ok. I don't really feel like eatin right now. A coke might be good though.”

  David went up to buy us a coke at the High School Civinettes stand. As he walked away I could see he was a bit older and more stooped than he were before. His arms hung by his sides and there was no swagger in his walk.

  Well, we did go ahead an ride that Ferris wheel an it was nice to see our entire town stretched out in front of us like some sort of fantasy world of lights an miniature life, but kinda sour too.

  We got back to Fred who was beamin to beat the band. He had won that blue ribbon after all and Bobo was already rented out for stud to six other farmers—that was gonna be some good money for Diddy to drink away if Fred wadnt careful!

  The ride home in the back of Fred's truck was like the end of a dream; you know when you are half asleep but half awake, the dream fading but it's still there somehow stuck in the back of your head? It was like that. We could see the stars goin by, the air was chilly, the chords from the radio in the cab an Fred's flat voice singin out drifted in an out along with the sound of other cars. I could feel David next to me, our arms barely touchin as the truck swayed back an forth on the old gravel road toward the farm, but still neither one of us talked. I think we was both just too tired an too sad to think of anything to say. I knew we'd both be back to normal soon, him torturing me and what not, but it was kind of nice to share this strange and unexplainable night with him.

  This night when we both understood our blessings.

  Time Will Tell

  Stephanie Tillman

  My mom tells me she has a new sister in an email describing her and dad’s weekend travel plans:

  I hope you’re doing something fun over the weekend. We’re leaving Saturday morning for the Virginia mountains. We’re going to stay at the same B&B for at least two nights and then we’ll see where else we may want to go. I think I have another sister so we’re meeting her and her husband at the winery. Cool, huh? You have another piece of mail from Conlextis. Is this something that needs to be saved or sent to you?

  She’s always preferred the iceberg technique in her correspondence, covering topics as varied as the weather, dinner plans and my old high school classmates she runs into at the grocery store. I think a recently discovered sister could be followed up with more than a “cool, huh?” She decides, however, that I have all of the relevant family reunion information and moves on to the important stuff, like what to do with my junk mail.

  Another sister? That IS cool! Throw the Conlextis letter away. Mail addressed to me will most likely be junk, so throw it all away.

  Maybe the details seem unimportant to her since she met another half-sister at the winery five years ago. My mom could have just as easily typed, “I’m going to meet another stranger who is my sister, blah blah blah.” Her online review of the winery would read something like: “Beautiful views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Nice wine. Great place to meet family members that you just found out existed.”

  On Saturday, my dad sends me a text with an emergency update from the meeting:

  Your new aunt and uncle seem to be very nice, though they are a little less refined than what I was expecting. Time will tell.

  This coming from a man who eats fast food every day and refuses to go to the doctor for the hernia that pokes out of his stained Maytag repair shirt. Now that he’s replaced his 64-ounce chewing tobacco spit cup with soggy, gnawed cigars, he’s gotten snobby.

  When I was about 10, I wanted older siblings so badly I made them up. Fake Ben and Lauren were six and seven years older than me, respectively. Ben was handsome, muscular, and wore a leather bomber jacket. Lauren had every Liz Claiborne purse my mom wouldn’t buy for me. She wore oversized sweatshirts and teased my bangs like hers. They both loved me so much that they’d invite me into their titillating teenage world, but they were also very protective and would only let me sneak a peek. I didn’t see much of them as they were always driving around in their cars or at the mall.

  I could come up with hundreds of reasons I loved my fake siblings, but I couldn’t manage one for my real-life younger brother. Like all other seven-year-olds, he was useless, always playing and asking questions. He’d barge into my bedroom with dirt on his face and ask, “Who are you talking to?”

  “You are such a brat! Get out of here!”

  “I’m boring,” he’d say because he didn’t know the difference between bored and boring.

  Ben and Lauren told me to be nice to my little brother because he’s family. They were too kind to say it, but I could tell they didn’t like him either. He was an embarrassment to us all.

  I became so obsessed with my phony family that I even roped my friend into playing along at school. I’d loudly tell a group of kids in the cafeteria about how my older brother, Ben, is so annoying when he drives me to school, ignoring the speed bumps and blasting his car stereo. I’d nod to my friend and she’d quickly interject, “Yeah, but he’s so cute.”

  “Gross, no he’s not! He’s my brother!”

  Not wanting to brag, I’d come up with different ways to express how much they irritated me and how I longed to be an only child, but the message was clear: I had a very cool family.

  Where are they now? Ben is bald and probably a dick. Lauren wears Crocs and ties her frizzy hair back with a scrunchie. They are undoubtedly overweight and bored. I imagine an email from them saying something like, “We haven’t heard from you in 20 years! We’d love to catch up. How about meeting for a drink? We think you are the best!” I’d probably reply something like, “Cool.”

  On Monday I get an email from my mom. I know this is the last I’ll hear about my new aunt:

  Meeting went well. I’ve attached pics. Dad thinks they’re hillbillies, but look who’s talking. I forgot to tell you, you have something from the credit union. It looks official. Do you want me to save it?

  I click on the photos and see a thin white-haired woman posing with my mom and her other half-sister of five years. The three of them politely smile like strangers sharing a bottle of wine and a dad. I’d print it out and put it in a “Sisters” frame as a Christmas present if I thought my mom would laugh. It would only confuse her. She’d lovingly display it on the mantle anyway, taking it down the second I left.

  I’m glad the meeting went well. She looks nice. On second thought, please save anything addressed to me. I’ll figure out what to throw out when I come for a visit.

  I search for a cheap roundtrip ticket home, already dreading the stack of junk mail I have to sort through.

  Big Daughter

  Sara Warner

  The problem with my daughter was there was no place she could stand where all of her fit in the mirror. When she was ten she could bend this way and that to get her pigtails straight, but by the time she was twelve she needed to see if the curve of her bottom went with her new breasts and how it all looked with her long legs. She thought her feet were too big and so it didn’t matter so much that the bathroo
m mirror cut her off at midcalf, but by the time she was thirteen, even the full-length mirror inside her mamma’s closet cut off her head completely. As her father, it seemed there should be something I could do.

  I took her and the mirror outside one day so she could get back far enough to see herself entirely. I held the mirror up while she backed across the yard. When her whole body from shoulder to shoulder and head to toe came into the mirror I yelled, “There! Stop!” But from thirty feet away she couldn’t see much. She was having to stand in the neighbor’s yard and worry all the time about them seeing her, maybe saying something about not stepping on the new grass. On top of that, nothing else fit in the mirror with her so it couldn’t give her much idea of herself.

  But I happened to think about a big building downtown, fifteen stories high, and all its windows were like mirrors. We used to go down there evenings after all the traffic had cleared out. As we walked along I could see her lean toward the place where she would be able to see herself in the windows. We would climb a long hill and round a corner, and there a long plaza stretched before us right to the base of the mirrors. Then she would straighten and her eyes fix on the distant mark, studying the blurred image that was hers as it grew larger and larger. She enjoyed these trips. I would point out to her the lovely balance of her shoulders and