Fallout

by Ellen Hopkins

  though. Car. What about her car?

  It’s Thanksgiving. Everything

  will be closed. No batteries,

  and even if there were, I have

  to be at the station. Really soon.

  I could pick her up after work,

  but I know she’s anxious to get

  busy on the duckurken thing.

  “Get dressed. You can drop me

  off, then take my car. Just don’t

  forget to pick me up later, okay?”

  I swear, relationships are labor-

  intensive. All about compromise.

  Yada. Yada. But when Nikki

  comes into the bathroom, all

  mussed from sleep and our

  early morning rendezvous,

  she looks at me in the mirror,

  and her eyes hold so much love

  that every ounce of resentment

  melts away like butter on a hot

  griddle. I relinquish the sink,

  go into the bedroom, slip into

  the jeans lying on the floor.

  They’re a little wrinkled, but

  clean enough and worn to

  the point of real comfort.

  A whole lot like the bond

  between Nikki and me.

  FOR A REFRESHING CHANGE

  The pimply overnight guy has to wait

  for me. I’m through the door at six

  oh three, which means he had to play

  the station call. Damn. Hope he did it.

  FCC rules demand it, and a station

  can get fined if it doesn’t identify

  itself close to top of the hour. Oh,

  well. Not my problem now, I guess.

  The dude comes skulking down the hall,

  muttering mostly under his breath. Sure.

  Promote the half-ass guy and keep me

  doing nights. He slams on out the door.

  Half-ass? Me? And just what

  does that make him? A company

  man? I head on into the booth,

  just as the last spot of the break finishes.

  Perfect timing, man. Half-ass?

  I don’t think so. I punch up the next

  song on the playlist, zero seconds

  to spare. Yeah, I should have been

  here earlier. Most morning guys

  get in at least an hour before their

  show begins, to dig up some witty

  repartee and be solidly prepared.

  Maybe tomorrow, right? Anyway,

  I can do this gig with my eyes closed.

  Witty is my middle name. And I know

  the playlist inside out. Lenny Kravitz

  finishes up. “Hey, Reno, happy

  Thanksgiving. If you’re up this

  early on a holiday, what’s wrong

  with you, anyway? The turducken

  can wait for an hour or two. Go

  back to bed, say hi to your wife,

  and get a little for me.” Okay,

  that was a wee bit crude, but that’s

  the name of the morning show

  game: Crude. Rude. Ear-catching

  entertainment. Rick the Brick

  Denio ain’t got a thing on me.

  I’M MOST OF THE WAY

  Through my shift when the studio

  telephone rings. “You got the X.”

  Is this Hunter Haskins? The husky

  voice is somehow familiar.

  “Uh, yes it is. And who am I speaking

  with?” I have almost placed her

  when she says, You remember

  me, right? You gave me those Dave

  Cook tickets. It was a really great

  show, you know. So thank you.

  Oh, yeah. Red. Actually, Leah.

  “No problem. Glad you liked it.”

  I was just wondering if you’re on

  mornings now or what. Cuz I think

  you’re really good. And I was also

  wondering when I can see you again.

  Despite everything with Nikki

  this morning, Leah’s breathy

  innuendo holds immense appeal.

  I allow myself a short fantasy—

  me, popping buttons, exposing

  soft white flesh … stop it, Hunter.

  Rein it in. You will not be exposing

  anything, unless it belongs to Nik.

  “Uh. The next remote I’m scheduled

  for is the Sparks Hometowne Christmas

  Parade.” Two weeks, two days. “I’ll

  be announcing with Montana.”

  Oh. So long? Well, I guess I can wait.

  I’ve got a little something for you.

  The girl is persistent. “Nice. Hang

  on …” I put her on hold, dig into

  my brain for a little Bob Marley trivia,

  pass it on to my listeners. “You still there?”

  Doubtless. “Well, you have a good

  Thanksgiving. See you in Sparks.”

  I’M STILL MUSING

  About “celebrity” perks when Big

  Leon comes in to take over. “Hey,

  dude,” I say. I’d ask his opinion

  on the matter, but his air name

  refers not so much to his height

  as to his three-hundred-pound

  girth. Pretty sure he’s never been

  offered a fine little piece just by

  virtue of his “not exactly a star”

  status. I gather my stuff, head

  out to the parking lot, look for

  my Nissan. Not there. Damn.

  I should have called Nikki to

  remind her. But then I notice

  Mom’s Jeep, with a familiar

  face behind the windshield.

  She gives me a major smile

  as I climb into the passenger seat.

  “Hey, Aunt Leigh. Great to see

  you. Uh, my car’s okay, right?”

  She laughs, reaches over to

  give me a hug. It’s safe. Poor

  Nikki is just up to her elbows

  in three varieties of stuffing.

  “Yeah, right. Hopefully one

  is plain cornbread. Where’s

  Katie? Didn’t she want to escape

  the madcap feast preparations?”

  Leigh’s smile vanishes. She sighs.

  Katie and I broke up. Crap timing,

  huh? Least she could have done

  was wait until after the holidays.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” We drive home,

  Leigh droning on about “different

  backgrounds” and “different dreams.”

  I truly am sorry. She and Katie have

  been a thing for more than six years.

  We all thought this was “the one,”

  especially Leigh, who seemed so happy

  when they were here last Christmas.

  I look at her tightly sculpted face,

  softened some by the shallow tendrils

  at the corners of her eyes. Almost

  forty, still beautiful. And single again.

  WE GET TO THE HOUSE

  A little before noon. Cars line up along

  the driveway single file, like half of Noah’s

  beasts—Dad’s mostly restored Willys Wagon,

  my Nissan (parked crooked, thanks so much, Nik),

  Jake and Misty’s dirt-crusted blue Subaru,

  Nikki’s mom’s showroom-clean Audi Quattro.

  Her dad’s car—an amazing ’09 Z06 Corvette—

  is conspicuously absent, but I wouldn’t expect

  him to show this early, considering dinner

  isn’t supposed to be served until late afternoon.

  He’s probably six inches deep in his boss right now.

  Poor Nikki’s mom. Guys are dogs. Woof, woof.

  THIS DOG STARTS SALIVATING

  As soon as the front door opens.

  If
the chiduckey tastes even half

  as good as it already smells,

  Nikki is going to get an extra,

  extra special thank-you tonight.

  Maybe that cooking show paid

  off after all. Dad and Jake are

  in the living room, watching Big

  Ten football and slurping brew.

  I poke my head through

  the archway, feign interest. “Hey,

  honey, I’m home. What’s the score?”

  Jake stands, offers his right

  hand. All tied up, three-three.

  Grab a beer and come sit down.

  “Sure. Give me a few.” I follow

  the drift of sage and rosemary

  toward the kitchen, where

  the women have gathered like

  ravens to watch Mom crust

  the prime rib with fresh ground

  pepper and rock salt. Marie Haskins

  doesn’t need cooking shows.

  Experience trumps experiments.

  It’s a scene right out of a movie.

  Five women, all beautiful

  within their own stages of life,

  talking and laughing and drinking

  wine. Golden-shelled pies decorate

  the granite countertops, leak

  scented steam, hinting at their

  anonymous fillings. Bread

  dough rises in yeasty grandeur,

  and a chorus line of foil-wrapped

  potatoes await their own turn in

  the oven. It’s a scene right out

  of a movie, okay. Artificial.

  Look into any of these ladies’

  eyes, I guarantee you’ll find

  some manner of hurt. Something

  to deny feasting and celebration.

  Something to deny Thanksgiving.

  CALL ME A CYNIC

  You wouldn’t be inaccurate.

  Then, again, neither is my assessment.

  Conspicuously absent is one female

  member of this family. Kristina

  should be here for her kids.

  And speaking of the demonic duo,

  wonder what manner of evil David

  and Donald are perpetrating right now.

  Upstairs. In my former room.

  I’ll check it out in a few. Meanwhile,

  I probably should be social. “Hello,

  ladies. Need any help?”

  Mom says, Don’t think so. But thanks.

  Misty says, How sweet of you to offer.

  Leigh snorts, knowing the offer was

  mostly empty. Nikki’s mom

  turns rheumy eyes at me. Whoa.

  How much wine has she sloshed already?

  Nikki, sweet Nikki, sidles over, clearly

  wanting to kiss me. Except

  her mom is standing there staring.

  Like I care. I reach, pull her right

  up against me. “Your turkey thing smells

  really good.” Then I whisper,

  “But not as good as you,” and

  I give her a giant lip smack, despite four

  pairs of eyes pointed directly at the two

  of us. Voyeurs deserve what they see.

  Nikki smiles, but extricates herself

  from my grasp and goes to be one

  of the girls. Guess that’s my cue

  to go be one of the guys.

  I grab a beer from the fridge.

  “Well, call if you need anything,” I lie.

  When I turn, I notice David outside

  the window playing with …

  A NEW PUPPY

  “Hey. No one told me you got

  a new pup.” It’s been a few

  months since Moxie died, at the ripe

  old age of fourteen. Downright

  elderly for a German shepherd.

  Too quiet around here without

  a dog, Mom says. Besides, we

  thought it might be good for

  the boys to have something

  to love and take care of.

  Or to dislike and mutilate.

  Cynically speaking, of course.

  David actually seems

  to be enjoying the pup’s

  company. I was just a little

  younger when Moxie came

  to us, all wiggly and yappy.

  She grew into a straight-up

  incredible dog, and I took

  a fair amount of credit for that.

  This puppy—Sasha, I’m told—

  may be just the thing to bring

  David and Donald out of

  their shells. Only Donald, like

  his mother, is obviously elsewhere.

  I AM ON MY WAY

  To check on his whereabouts

  when the telephone rings. No

  one else bothers, so I answer.

  Hello? Who the fuck is this?

  The always pleasant Ron.

  I want to talk to Kristina.

  “Uh, this is Hunter.” Wonder

  if he even knows who I am.

  “And Kristina isn’t here.”

  I swear I can almost hear anger

  swelling, pewter, in the silence.

  Well, where the fuck is she?

  My own temper kindles.

  “I don’t know where she is,

  Ron. She’s not my prob—”

  She’s out fucking around on

  me, isn’t she? Who is she with?

  I swear, I’ll kick her ass.

  “You already did that, dude.

  Look. She isn’t here. I haven’t

  seen her since last Christmas.”

  Don’t lie to me, you little shit,

  or I’ll kick your ass too. His

  voice is a cougar’s sharp hiss.

  His threat doesn’t scare me,

  but it does piss me off. “You’re

  going back to jail, you know….”

  Dad materializes beside me,

  takes the phone, calmly says,

  Kristina isn’t here, Ron.

  If you can’t find her, that’s

  too bad, but it’s really not

  our concern. What does concern

  me is your ruining our holiday.

  I’m going to hang up now.

  Don’t call back. Today or ever.

  Dad follows through, hangs

  up, and that might be that except

  around here, nothing ever is.

  A LOUD GASP

  On the stairs makes Dad

  and me wheel in unison. Donald.

  Was that my dad? he shouts.

  Why didn’t you let me talk to him?

  My dad remains calm. Your father

  didn’t ask to talk to you, Donald.

  So? I wanted to talk to him.

  You can’t keep me away from him.

  Dad’s voice rises, ever so slightly.

  No one’s trying to keep you away—

  Yes, you are. I hate you. I hate

  it here. I want to go home….

  The poor kid totally breaks

  down. Please. Let me go home.

  Dad drops his voice a notch.

  Look, son, you can’t go back there.

  Liftoff again. Shut up. Shut up.

  Yes, I can. Suddenly, something

  flies by my face, barely clearing

  my cheek before crashing into the wall.

  “What the …?” I retrieve the now

  useless thing, formerly my Wii controller.

  Donald thumps up the stairs,

  into his (my) room, slams the door.

  Dad follows, and all of a sudden

  a whole flock of women appears,

  clucking like hens. We can all hear

  Dad ask calmly, Please let me in.

  Just another day (holiday) in

  paradise, huh? Still holding most

  of my beer, I go to join Jake,

  cheer for no team in particular.

&n
bsp; Upstairs, Dad’s plea becomes

  a demand. Open this damn door!

  In the hallway, the hens are

  still clucking away. And …

  “Hey,” I yell. “Is something

  burning?” Cluck-cluck-cluck. Bwoik!

  I’m thinking a serious buzz

  is in order. Beer will not do.

  WHAT MAY DO

  Is the pill potpourri

  still in my pocket.

  Who knows what

  they might really do, if anything. I reach

  for possible Nirvana,

  swallow it down with

  two gulps of beer. Wait.

  I plop on the plush

  leather sofa, fake cheer

  when Wisconsin scores,

  slug down more beer. Wait. About the time

  I think I must have

  gagged down placebos,

  my brain goes fuzzy

  and my tongue thickens

  in my mouth. Behind

  my forehead, a zzzzzz

  sound lifts, like bees swarming, and my ears

  feel like I’m diving

  deep. Pressure. I close

  my eyes, try to shut out

  football. Shouting. Crying.

  Clucking. Burnt butter

  smell. Dinner should be

  interesting. To say the least.

  Autumn

  WE’VE ALWAYS KEPT

  Thanksgiving relatively low-key.

  Grandfather. Aunt Cora. And me.

  We spend the day cooking. Tasting.

  Eating. Getting way too full. Just us.

  But not this year. This year

  we’re going to a big schmooze

  at Liam’s parents’ house in Austin.

  Aunt Cora wants to introduce us.

  Not sure why she needed

  to make the big intros today.

  She knows how I feel about

  breaking bread with total strangers.

  Grandfather isn’t a whole

  lot happier about it than I am.

  But Aunt Cora can be pretty

  convincing when she’s honey sweet.

  It’s a skill I’m working hard on,

  especially where Grandfather

  is concerned. I’ve tried and tried

  to get him to loosen my reins, at least

  a little. It’s hard to maintain

  a romance when most every

  move is monitored. Grandfather

  doesn’t trust me, which another time

  I might find sort of funny. Me?

  In need of watching? I mean,

  considering his distrust took

  root in a past defined by my father,

  it’s not really fair to me.

  Then again, considering

  I’m not exactly anxious for