“Yeah,” is all I can say, though I do think it’s beautiful.
He nods slowly. “Tomorrow let’s do another coat,” he says. He starts reading over the notes, whispering to himself the directions for cleaning the brushes.
* * *
The next morning while our father is at work, our mother praises the way the table looks after our coat of polyurethane. My skin tingles, and I wonder how I’ll confess smoking the joint at church. She’s making her second cup of tea this morning using the same tea bag from the first cup. It’s a habit she picked up from her mother who survived the Depression; it may come in handy if our father gets laid off.
“How’d you make it look so nice?” my mother asks. She’s looking out the garage door at the table.
“Dad’s instructions,” my brother says when it’s clear that I’m not going to say anything.
“It looks shiny, like morning dew on grass,” my mother says.
On the television, the news features protesters outside the White House demonstrating against the war. My brother giggles at a sign that reads No Blood for Oil. He’s probably already stoned. After breakfast he disappeared on his bike and came back an hour later. He went right to his room and closed the door, listening to his N.W.A cassette.
He snickers at a fast-food commercial on the television. As far as I can see there’s nothing funny about the ad. My mother gives him an odd look.
* * *
My brother unwinds an extension cord and stretches it across the garage, plugging in the tape deck. While he sets up the stereo, I attach fine grit paper to the handheld sanders. Our parents are back at church discussing what’s to be done about Father Brian’s disappearance; our father needs us to apply another coat.
My brother clicks the play button and a drum beat sounds from the plastic speakers. Over the kick drum and snare, a saxophone drones one note and men’s voices rap angry lyrics littered with words and phrases that would make our father’s face turn red with biblical fury. The list of transgressions I’ll need to confess is growing, but the new priest who has taken over for Father Brian doesn’t offer confession. He’s a retired clergyman who mumbles the mass. His sermons don’t tremble with the Holy Spirit. Taking a rag, I cover the small pewter crucifix on my father’s workbench and let the bass line from the tape deck move over me while my brother finishes rolling the joint.
I set up the fan as my brother smokes the joint then hands it to me. Determined not to cough when I take my first hit, I focus on the way the smoke pushes back against my lungs. All the neighborhood sounds are masked by the music coming out of the speakers with a high-pitched hiss from the worn acetate.
After my second hit, the music no longer feels like it’s coming from outside my head; it’s coming from inside me—my heart, my gut. I take another hit and close my eyes, moving my head back and forth listening to the secrets underneath the beat.
“Geek,” my brother says. His words snap me out of my trance.
“Let’s get to work,” he says. “How do we do this?” He examines a sander, running a fingertip over the rough paper.
Grabbing a sander from the workbench, I click on the two overhead spotlights. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but my father taught me you can never have enough light on a problem. The wood grain rolls over itself under the shiny surface. I try to ignore it, but I begin to understand that it’s telling me how to work the sandpaper over the wood. And I listen. “Softly. Like this,” I say to my brother without looking up.
The music fills the garage, and we sand, obeying the grain of the wood.
When we finish, the surface is dull. “What the hell?” my brother says over the music.
“It’s a trick of the polyurethane. After another coat it will shine again,” I say.
“What are you guys doing?” a voice behind us says. I turn and Travis Bouchard from down the street is standing in our garage. His greasy hair hangs over his eyes—he pushes it away with his fingers.
My brother clicks off the tape. “Get the fuck out of here,” he says.
“What is this?” Travis says, pointing at the table.
“It’s none of your business,” my brother says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Get out of here.”
“What’s wrong with you guys?”
My brother raises his one good fist as if to punch Travis, and Travis sprints out of the garage, his feet kicking up gravel as he runs down our driveway. My brother turns to me and shakes his head. In this action, I understand that we are now different from the other neighborhood kids. We don’t belong to the early-evening basketball games or Saturday-morning tackle football.
“Fuck that little bitch,” my brother says in the biting tone of the rappers from the cassette.
“Fuck that little bitch,” I repeat.
My brother gives an acerbic laugh and presses the play button on the tape deck. We prepare the lacquer for the next coat to cover the dulled, sanded surface. When the A-side of the tape clicks off, I flip the cassette and click the play button. The treble of the small plastic speakers fills the garage as we work on the second coat.
When we’re done, the glimmering sheen has returned to the surface.
The feeling of being stoned has lessened, only coming back in quick waves. The table is so close to being completed that I can now see the finished product shining in our kitchen.
Outside it starts to rain. I don’t know how long we’ve been standing there, time becoming as unbalanced as the ground beneath my feet. My brother takes the half of a joint he left in my father’s toolbox and lights it. My parents will be gone late with these meetings, unless my mother gets sick and has to come home. We take hits without speaking. The silence begins to echo in my head as the shimmering wood grain of the table swirls to life in front of me.
“What are you doing?” The voice breaks my reverie. It’s Travis Bouchard again. He’s wearing a stupid yellow poncho beaded with rainwater. The garage door is open and I listen to the sound of raindrops bouncing off our gravel driveway.
“I want you guys to see something,” he says.
My brother and I look at Travis. He’s scrawny beneath his poncho. He’s younger than me, but he sometimes acts older. Like he knows things a kid his age shouldn’t. In my head I see Frank and my father wrestling in our driveway over the money I owed Travis for the kitten.
“How’s your mom’s boyfriend?” my brother says. “Still pissed our dad kicked his ass?” The weed must be keeping him from running Travis off again.
“Frank moved out. That’s what this is about,” he says. “He left something I think we can sell. I thought you guys could help.”
My brother turns to me and shrugs. He and I follow Travis down the road, because, fuck it, we’re stoned and we need money. Rain strikes my face, soaks my T-shirt and shorts, but it doesn’t bother me. My brother tucks his cast under his T-shirt as we walk so it won’t get wet.
“This better be good,” my brother says.
Travis is so pleased with himself he can’t stop smiling.
When we get to his depressing house, we stand in his driveway. I’ve never been inside, and I doubt my brother has, either. It’s the shittiest-looking house in the neighborhood. Rain soaks the paper house wrap that was never covered with siding.
“Why’d you come to us?” my brother says. Travis walks up his steps, but my brother and I don’t follow.
“Everyone my age is a baby,” he says. “And the other kids are too old. I didn’t know who else to show.”
My brother shrugs again, satisfied by Travis’s words. We follow him into his house. The living room smells like our basement did once when it flooded and mold grew on the walls. Red curtains cover the windows. A radio plays somewhere in the house. Three cats sleep on the frayed couch. I recognize a calico as the cat that was born in one of our litters from the spring. The cat makes eye contact
with me, and for a second, I expect it to say my name.
“Where’s this stuff you’re talking about?” my brother asks.
“This way,” Travis says.
The basement is unfinished. Plastic garbage bags with clothes spilling out the tops are piled on the cement floor. Boxes sit in the corner, water stains rising up the cardboard sides.
Travis leads us to a television in the corner of the basement. Next to the television is an old wooden chest like the one where my mother keeps extra blankets in our basement.
Travis taps the lid of the wooden chest. “Open it,” he says.
My brother gives Travis an annoyed look, shaking his head, irritated by the dramatic way he’s led us to this wooden chest in his basement. He tosses open the lid.
The chest is lined with VHS tapes. My brother grabs one and examines the cover. A woman lies on a bed with her legs open. Other than knee-high lace stockings, she’s naked.
“Porn?” my brother says. “That’s it?”
I grab the tape from my brother and examine the space where the woman’s legs meet.
“Look at all the tapes. Hundreds of them. I want to sell them before Frank comes back,” Travis says. “My mom always takes him back.”
“Who’s going to buy these?” my brother says.
“Kids around the neighborhood,” Travis says. “If we charge a buck a piece we could make over a hundred dollars.”
I grab another VHS tape and scan the cover. Two black women tongue kiss while they fondle each other’s naked breasts.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” my brother says.
Travis doesn’t respond. He removes a tape from its cardboard sleeve and sticks it in the VHS player on top of the television. He clicks on the TV and presses play.
I stand back and watch the screen flicker for a moment before naked bodies thrust against one another. A sharp jolt of shame cuts through my high.
“I don’t have friends,” Travis says as we all stare at the bodies on the screen. “You guys can sell them for me and I’ll give you some of the money. You can keep a few of the tapes, too.”
I feel myself getting excited as I watch the screen—the guilt beneath the pleasure makes goose pimples rise on my legs. No one speaks as we take in the moaning man and woman on the television.
While my brother and I are lost in the scene on the screen, Travis has pushed his pants to his ankles. He rubs his hand against his crotch. I’m confused for a moment, trying to understand what’s happening.
“What the fuck?” my brother says.
Travis turns to me and grabs my arm with his free hand. “You can touch it,” he whispers and pulls my hand toward him.
Before I can react, my brother shoves Travis into the chest full of porn videos. The man on the screen screams in ecstasy and the woman groans. I follow my brother up the stairs into the living room. The cats scatter from the couch as we bound toward the front door. Travis yells something from the basement. My brother pushes out the front door into the rain. I follow, leaping down the steps.
When we reach the road, we bend over, panting. Before we can take off running toward our house a car honks. We look up to see our mother smiling in the passenger seat of our car next to our father, who’s driving. She rolls down her window. “What are you doing in the rain?” she says. “Get in the car.”
We get in the back without a word and slam our doors. Travis appears on his front steps, his pants back up to his waist. When he sees our parents in the car, he smiles and waves.
“That boy is strange,” my mother says. “Stay away from him. You never know what a kid like that will do.” Before my father puts the car in gear to drive us home, my mother turns to look at me in the backseat and adds, “I guess all boys are strange.”
* * *
That night I wake up sweating with a vague fear that something has happened to the table. I can’t help imagining something bad happening to it, as if we are cursed and the table will never be finished. I throw the covers off my body and tiptoe through the dark house. When I flip the switch in the garage, the lights flicker before revealing the gleaming table. I stare at it for a few moments then turn out the lights and walk back into the dark house, satisfied that it’s safe.
In the hallway, I hear my father talking. Their door is cracked and the bedside lamp casts a soft glow over my sleeping mother. My father is kneeling next to the bed, his hands clasped as if in prayer. The blood on his bandaged hand has dried to a blackish red. He wears only underwear; his bare shoulders are unnerving.
“They were injured. Four of them,” he says. His eyes dart over my mother’s sleeping face. “Mr. Whittaker wants me to deny writing the reports,” he continues. “Wants me to write new reports saying that we knew nothing about the defective guns.” He pauses, then moans, “Four of our soldiers are in the hospital. I told him, ‘No. I won’t do it. It’s wrong.’” He studies her face again, as if hoping she’ll wake up and tell him what he should do. “I’ll lose my job. There’s no way I won’t now. That’s what Mr. Whittaker said.”
When he says this, I suck air in through my teeth with a sharp hiss. I can’t stop myself. My father looks up from my mother. He opens his mouth to speak, but then he calmly stands and walks to the door. “Go to bed,” he says in a composed voice. “You don’t want to wake your mother.”
XIV
The next day while my father is at work building tanks there’s a knock on our screen door. I’m trying to make the reception come in on the television. My mother is asleep down the hall. She has started waking in the middle of the night, screaming. Her doctor told her that chemo patients sometimes have nightmares. He said she should write the dreams down, but she told my father she’s too afraid of them.
My brother is in the armchair reading a Mad magazine he keeps hidden in the oversize children’s Bible my parents still keep under the coffee table. When the front door clangs, he looks at me.
He drops the magazine and goes to the door.
“Who are you?” he says to the person standing on our front steps.
I hear Taylor’s voice say, “I’m here for your brother.”
“What?” he says. He turns to me. “There’s a girl here for you.” He laughs and disappears down the hall to his bedroom.
I twist the knob on the television, shutting it off. For a moment I don’t move. Taylor presses her face to the screen to see inside.
I walk to the door. “Hi,” I say. We stare at each other through the screen door. She smiles. I pull the front door open and step outside. It’s oppressively hot. I’ve been avoiding going outside all day.
Taylor is in the overall jean shorts and white sneakers she was wearing on the Fourth of July. Her hands are pushed into her pockets. Her short hair is a mess on her head.
“How’d you find me?” I ask.
She sits down on the front steps and I follow her lead. I can smell her strawberry shampoo.
“You told me where you lived,” she says. “Remember? We both hate cancer.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I laugh. “I must have forgotten.”
She looks at me and frowns.
“I didn’t forget,” I say. “I don’t know.” I’m quiet for a moment. “Who was that man who came to get you?”
“My mom’s boyfriend, Steve.” She swats at a bee circling our heads. “He’s a good guy. Bought the double-wide for my mom and me.”
“Oh,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to say. I want to figure out the right words to get her to place her hand on my forearm again, but nothing comes to mind.
She looks at me and smiles a tight smile. “You’re quiet, huh?”
Then it hits me. “Want to see something?” I say.
The garage door clangs above us until it settles in its tracks. In the center of the garage the table rests on wooden sawhorses. It now has four co
ats of polyurethane. My father says he could stop, but he’s consumed with getting it perfect. The surface shines from the fresh coat he applied yesterday. Sunlight glints off the finish making the table glow. The chemical scent burns my nose. I’m not supposed to be in here while the lacquer dries, but I need to show Taylor.
“What is it?” she asks.
“My dad’s making it,” I say. “It’s our kitchen table. Once he’s done with the finish, he’ll assemble the legs and we’ll bring it inside.”
“Your father is making this?” she asks. “It’s beautiful.”
Seeing the table through Taylor’s eyes, I understand just how beautiful it is. Its perfect symmetry glistening beneath the polyurethane sheen.
Taylor approaches the table and reaches out her soft fingers.
“Don’t touch it,” I snap, repeating the refrain my father has spoken all summer since he began working on the table.
Taylor pulls her hand back and apologizes.
“It’s just that nothing can happen to it,” I say, not wanting to upset her. “We haven’t had a kitchen table all summer.”
“Your mother,” Taylor says. “How is she? Is she here?”
I look down at the table and study the way the wood grain moves beneath the coat of lacquer. Taylor places her hand on my shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to talk about your mother.” She regards the table for a moment and says, “I can’t believe your father made this.”
“What does your father do?” I ask, glad to change the subject.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I haven’t seen him since I was four. I’ve had a few step-dads since him.” Taylor gets quiet. Her hand slides off my shoulder. We stare at the table in silence.
“She’s in bed right now,” I say. “My mother. She’s in bed. Whenever she’s home, she’s sleeping. Especially right after her treatments.”
Taylor rests her head on my shoulder, and we stare at the glistening table in silence until she says, “I should go.”
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