We Speak in Storms

by Natalie Lund

  “Fuck you,” she growled. “So what if I were gay? Why would it matter?”

  Manny was watching her coolly from across the room—as uninterested now in protecting her from Tomás as he’d been as a kid. Brenna managed to get in front of Tomás, but he moved the notebook behind his back, leaving his crotch exposed. Brenna grabbed his shoulders and kneed him in the groin with one swift motion. Tomás doubled over, dropping the notebook and gasping. The cousins were all on their feet, shouting, like his balls were all he had. Manny slow-clapped, his face twisted in a wry grin.

  The adults appeared in the doorway. “What’s happening?”

  Mariana just pointed at Brenna, her mouth hanging open. Brenna blew her hair off her face with her bottom lip and readjusted her flannel. She grabbed the notebook off the floor and held it to her chest, still catching her breath.

  “A girl fighting like that,” her grandmother said to her mother in Spanish. “What a shame. Truly your daughter.”

  “Leave her alone,” Brenna said.

  “Brenna, don’t.” Her mother shook her head.

  “No, Mom. You don’t deserve to be spoken to like that.”

  “Ma-hm,” Tomás parroted. “Such a gringa.”

  “All of you, stop. I’m sorry we’re not the family members you want us to be.” Brenna turned to her grandmother. “Abuela, you want us to visit more often and we want to be here, but you make it really hard. I know it must have hurt a lot that Mom got pregnant and left, but that was a long time ago. It’s got to be okay to make mistakes,” Brenna spoke in English—not sure if her grandmother even understood, but her mom smiled at her proudly.

  “I just want what’s best,” her grandmother replied in Spanish. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “I know, mamá,” Brenna’s mother said. “We all do, but nobody is perfect.”

  “Why don’t we pray together and eat?” tía Camila said softly, ever the peacemaker. If anything had the power to heal their family, it would be food: her uncle’s charred tenderloin, Camila’s fresh tortillas, her grandmother’s salsa verde, and Mariana’s tres leches cake.

  Mariana turned off the TV, and the cousins bowed their heads—even Tomás, whose hands were still cupped over his balls. Camila’s prayer was for forgiveness, for love, and grace. Brenna’s grandmother punctuated each word—perdón, amor, gracia—with a nod, though Brenna was not convinced she was any nearer to understanding. Brenna was, though. No matter how difficult, she would keep trying to be closer to this family, to be closer to who she was within it.

  Brenna’s mother caught her hand and squeezed it a moment. “You and Manny were never a mistake,” she whispered.

  Across the room, Manny was lolling his head from side to side as though stretching his neck. “Are you sure about Manny?” Brenna asked.

  Her mother grinned and elbowed her playfully.

  “I don’t want us to end up like you and Grandma,” Brenna whispered.

  “We won’t.”

  And Brenna felt sure this was true.

  EDDIE DIDN’T WANT TO LOSE

  Eddie didn’t want to lose Luke after the incident with Carolyn at the shop—especially when there was no one else in Mercer who could understand the yearning deep inside his abdomen, which wasn’t for Carolyn, never had been for Carolyn, but for Luke: all muscle and bone and sweat and grease. This, Eddie can share with us here, in the after.

  When Eddie arrived at Luke’s, Luke was burning brush and leaves in his backyard, standing way too close to the fire. He wore his mechanic’s jumpsuit, unzipped to the waist, and Eddie’s Mercer Fire T-shirt, a gift, underneath. From his vantage point, the flames were licking Luke’s face. Eddie panicked that Luke’s features were melting, like the Mercer fire chief’s, who didn’t have a nose or eyelids and always stared, unnervingly, at his men.

  Eddie called out, and Luke looked up, seemingly unsurprised that Eddie was there. He stomped out the fire. The knees of his jumpsuit had blackened.

  “I thought I was going to have to call the truck,” Eddie said. He expected Luke to flirt back or tease him, but Luke walked toward him slowly, as though stalking prey.

  “What do you want?” Each syllable was sharp, cutting.

  “To take you to the drive-in.” It was the moment Eddie would wish he could erase for the rest of his life.

  “Like nothing happened?” Luke asked.

  Eddie was always nervous near Luke’s house. He’d never been hated before, and Luke’s dad certainly hated him. “Come on. We can talk in the car.”

  * * *

  * * *

  They were silent driving to the country. Eddie spun the radio dial obsessively—never landing on a song for more than a few seconds. Luke leaned against the window, his face tight and still, except for the slight movement of his jaw clenching and unclenching.

  “Listen,” Eddie said when he had parked. “I want to spend time together, but I can’t just up and leave Carolyn. And I can’t go west with you.”

  “Why not?” Luke asked gruffly.

  “People expect certain things of me.”

  “Like they don’t of me?”

  It was raining by then, pinging loudly on the roof of the Pontiac.

  “You’re braver than I am, Luke. Dumping Connie like that.”

  He shrugged. “It’s what was fair. What was right.”

  Eddie watched the movie for a moment. The smell of Luke was overwhelming: fire. He wanted to taste it, wanted all of Luke in his mouth. When he brushed his lips against Luke’s neck, Luke didn’t push him away, but he didn’t respond, either. He just sat there, waiting for Audrey Hepburn to appear. Eddie moved downward, closing his teeth, finally, on the zipper. Luke grabbed Eddie’s hair, pulling his chin up, and Eddie felt a rush of excitement.

  “Do you love me?” Luke asked, his grip tight in Eddie’s hair, his eyes still glued on the windshield.

  Eddie had never considered a question like that before. Attraction, certainly. But love? Like his parents’ love? That meant marriage, a house, children you raised to play baseball like you. With Luke, he’d never have that.

  Finally Eddie spoke, carefully. “As much as men can love each other.”

  Luke released his hold on Eddie’s hair then, opened the car door, and climbed out. Just like that.

  “Where are you going?” Eddie called, suddenly desperate. “It’s too far to walk, and it’s pouring out!”

  Luke didn’t turn around. He walked with purpose, as though he’d cross cornfields and keep walking straight through the storm to California.

  As the tornado screamed toward the Pontiac, Eddie shook in his seat, but he kept the car in park, waiting—hoping—for Luke to return.

  Days later, when Luke was identified among the dead, Eddie proposed to Carolyn. He’d wed himself to that future the moment the words As much as men can had left his mouth—whether or not he truly believed what he’d said. Because, in the end, Eddie’s words had sealed Luke’s fate.

  At the impound lot two days before, Joshua had promised Luke he’d sneak a sleeping bag and a few candles into the house across the street.

  “I want you to feel welcome and comfortable somewhere,” he’d said, and Luke had looked grateful. Joshua had hoped he’d be able to see the flicker of the candles from his bedroom, but last night the house remained dark.

  After school, he parked himself on the couch with the curtains open, still hopeful. Ruthie plopped on the couch next to him and started talking about her teachers. Joshua had a feeling his mother had put her up to talking to him. It was annoying because he wanted to watch for Luke, but he missed how they used to talk for hours, their imaginations spinning out.

  Ruthie was theorizing that two of her teachers were dating. “I bet Mr. Fulton takes Ms. Jones on dates to Victorian Harbor. He orders duck à l’orange and she orders a Cobb salad, dry, because she’s ‘wa
tching her figure.’”

  “And a nice bottle of chianti,” Joshua said, making a sucking sound with his teeth like Hannibal Lecter.

  She laughed. “And he’ll want to split the check. Teacher salaries and all.”

  They fell silent, and Joshua chewed on his cuticle, staring out the window. There’d been no sign of life for a few days.

  “What’s new with you?” Ruthie asked—clearly searching for something to keep him talking.

  “Not much,” Joshua answered. “I’ve been hanging out with two girls from school—although one of them was out today.” He paused. “Her mom is sick. I think she’s going to die soon.”

  Ruthie was silent, probably thinking of their grandparents, since she had no memory of their father. Joshua shifted so he was seated sideways, a more comfortable position for keeping an eye on Luke’s house.

  “Ginger ball, there’s no one there. And even if there were, he’d be way out of your league.”

  “So now even imaginary people are out of my league?” Joshua asked.

  “Pretty much,” she said.

  Joshua pulled her into a headlock and licked his finger to give her a wet willy.

  “Ew. Mom! Lawrence!” she squealed.

  Lawrence rounded the corner from the kitchen, a can of beer in his hand.

  “Do something!” she shrieked, slapping Joshua’s head.

  “Ow! Lawrence!” Joshua shouted.

  “I have to remain neutral.” The man’s eyes were twinkling, mischievous. He set the can down carefully on the end table, pressed his fingers into the condensation, and launched himself at Joshua. The sweat from the cold can in Joshua’s ear felt as though someone was tickling his nerves. He squirmed away, releasing his sister.

  “What’s going on down there?” their mother called from upstairs.

  “Nothing,” all three called back in unison, muffling laughter.

  Ruthie popped up from the couch, finger-combing her hair back into place, and jogged up the stairs—flicking Joshua off on the way up. But Lawrence remained, waiting—it seemed—for them to be alone. Then he dropped his head, the folds under his neck spreading so his face was framed by fat.

  “Hey, Josh, I’m sorry about the other day. In the hardware store. I should have said something after he called you that . . . name. I’m not the best at thinking on my feet.”

  Joshua looked at the man beside him. For so long, he’d been in such disbelief that his mother had chosen this man. But here was Lawrence—shy and gentle beneath all that linebacker bulk—and trying to learn how to be a parent—his parent, which made Joshua feel an unexpected swell of tenderness.

  * * *

  * * *

  After dinner, Joshua migrated to his drawing desk, listening for the soft click of Ruthie’s and his mother’s doors, which signaled there’d be no further interruptions. He liked to imagine a world where he snuck into Luke’s house for secret romantic trysts. Where Luke’s hard shell had peeled away—not just momentarily, like at the impound lot, but regularly. He’d say vulnerable things—Age doesn’t matter. Death doesn’t matter. Love is forever. Etc., etc.—before pressing Joshua up against a wall.

  As though on cue, Joshua saw Luke walking down the street in his mechanic’s uniform. He looked different: smaller and less muscular, his shoulders bowed so his chest was concave, the hollows of his face more pronounced, the skin orangish and pale.

  Joshua scrambled out of his room and down the stairs, flinging open the door. He met Luke in the yellow pool of a streetlight.

  “Hey,” he said. “I put some things in the house for you.”

  Luke smiled, that tight half grimace he made. It was even more pained than the first time Joshua had seen it.

  “Are you okay?” Joshua asked.

  Luke nodded, but his eyes told another story. They seemed dim, like a light inside the pupils had been extinguished.

  “What have you been up to?”

  “Wandering,” said Luke. “Visiting old places. My dad. The cemetery. Even the drive-in again.”

  “Are you looking for something?”

  “Probably. But I don’t know what. Just feel like I have to keep going.”

  Joshua wondered about his own family, the ones who had passed long ago. Were they this restless too? “Can I ask you something? About before”—Joshua paused—“before you were back here?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Did you see other people who’d died? Like, maybe some of my relatives?”

  Luke’s face softened. “It’s a good place,” he said. “We’re all together.”

  It wasn’t exactly the answer he’d hoped for, but it made Joshua feel a little better. Before he could ask another question, he heard his mother’s voice.

  “Joshua?” She was leaning out the front door with a look of concern. “What are you doing outside, barefoot?”

  Luke gave a slight shake of his head. Don’t acknowledge me, he seemed to say.

  “I thought I saw a lost cat,” Joshua said.

  His mother looked puzzled. He’d never been a pet lover. “Come inside, you goof,” she said.

  Joshua walked back up the driveway and climbed the steps. Before he went inside, he glanced back at the street. Luke still stood in the yellow cone of light.

  Joshua lifted his chin in goodbye. The same gesture Luke had made the day they met. Luke returned the nod.

  Joshua smiled. Though he alone could see Luke, it didn’t matter.

  Luke saw Joshua.

  Brenna had looked up where the River Bandits were playing, and then she’d driven to the Cities, convinced Dot would be there. The band was already on when Brenna arrived, so she slid into a seat near the back. And then, there Dot was, tripping onto the stage in front of the band. She wore the same outfit, polka-dot shirt wrinkled and untucked. Her hair was loose and matted around the crown of her head. Her eyes were vacant, staring at some indiscernible point at the back of the bar. Brenna glanced around, still half expecting others to see her, to be shocked by this intrusion, but the audience sipped their canned beers and bobbed their heads unwittingly. Every time the lights moved, Dot followed them, stopping only when she was bathed in yellow. Right in front of the lead singer, she closed her eyes and started belting the lyrics: “Every lonely moment, I think of you.” Her voice sounded raspy, torn, like she’d been sobbing.

  Brenna pushed her way through concertgoers, murmuring apologies, until she was at the foot of the stage. “Dot,” she called.

  The girl’s eyes fluttered open, and she blinked, confused.

  “The River Bandits are performing. Please come down.” Someone elbowed Brenna in the ribs, but she still managed to reach out, beckoning Dot to take her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Brenna spotted a bear-sized bouncer moving toward her. “Dot, this isn’t the Rock-a-Gals. This is after—after the storm.” Dot sank to her knees, then sat, dropping her head into her hands. She was keening, a high-pitched whine.

  “Back up, miss,” the bouncer said, stepping in front of Brenna and crossing his arms.

  “Please,” she said. “I’m just trying to help my friend.” But to him, of course, there was no one there. Brenna backed away, watching until Dot lowered herself off the stage and stumbled toward the bathroom. Brenna followed.

  Inside, Dot was gripping the porcelain basin, the water running hot and steaming the bottom of the mirror. She was so close to the mirror that her lips were almost touching it. Her skin was scallop-white and wet. Her hair had lost its luster. Brenna stared at her own reflection. The dyed tips had faded to a cotton-candy pink. Amy would not approve. Beside Dot, though, she looked clearer and more substantial, as though Dot had become a fuzzy hologram. Dot smelled, too, something Brenna couldn’t quite put her finger on. The scent left in the air following a lightning storm?

  Dot met her eyes in the mirror and Brenna saw desperation
. “I don’t feel right,” she said.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I feel like something is pulling on me constantly. It’s hard to move. Hard to think.”

  Brenna thought of one-armed Gretta, of her insistence that she was caught in the wrong place, that her arm was trying to pull her to the other side.

  “Can I drive you home?”

  “No.” Dot shook her head. “I just want to be—” She flexed her fingers as though the motion would help her come up with the word.

  “Alone?” Brenna asked.

  “Alone,” Dot repeated.

  What would happen to a ghost who was being pulled from the other side? Would she disappear? Could she die all over again? “I can’t leave you like this,” Brenna said, knowing how scared she sounded. “At least let me take you home.” She grabbed Dot’s hand, hoping for that fortifying warmth and strength she’d felt a week ago in the parking lot, but her hand was cold.

  It felt like death.

  THE ROCK-A-GALS

  The Rock-a-Gals were in the VW. Beth and Bex on the floor where the back seats once were. Kitty up front with Detonator Dorothy beside her, blowing smoke out the window, a blank lavender notebook in her lap, ready for new songs. It was the Rock-a-Gals’ first time in Mercer, their first time at a drive-in. Like many of us, they ignored the smell of rain.

  Celeste took Dorothy’s order at the drive-in. That night, everyone was calling Celeste over just so she’d lean in their windows, all pink and perky. The wind was making her hair wild and lifting that red-and-white-striped uniform collar. We felt a little sorry for her—everyone having fun and there she was, working her ass off. She didn’t mind, though. Not our sweet friend.

  Dorothy was a few years older than Celeste, but she must have been feeling magnanimous that night, because she invited Celeste to her first show. We heard Celeste say she’d ask her mom. We were so full of hope and excitement, so sure that if Dorothy could look happy, if she could be grinning out her window and chatting easily with Celeste, anything could happen.