by Jeff Zentner
“When is the last time you and I shared a high five that wasn’t completely awkward?”
There were several spots in Forrestville that were prime for train watching, but Dill favored Bertram Park. It was a little ways up from the bridge with the Column. The railroad tracks bisected the park, perhaps not the optimal design. Fortunately, the neglected park wasn’t much of an attraction to kids. It had a forlorn baseball diamond and some oxidized playground equipment. A few spring-mounted teeter-totter animals that resembled sun-faded dollar-store rip-offs of Disney characters sprouted up through the sand.
They sat on a picnic table near enough to the train tracks that when they heard a train coming, they could get close.
Lydia checked her phone. “Watching trains. Dill’s version of YouTube. You know this is a very weird thing to do, yes?”
“Said the girl currently wearing clothing from five different decades.”
“Touché.”
“Should we ask the guy wearing a dragon necklace if he thinks it’s weird?” Dill asked.
“I don’t think it’s weird,” Travis said. “Trains and big machines are cool.”
“Why are you so into this?” Lydia asked.
Dill pondered. “I’m trying to think of the least weird way to put it.”
“Uh-oh,” Lydia said.
“Okay. So, when I watch trains, it makes me think about how much movement there is in the world. How every train has dozens of cars and every car has hundreds of parts, and all those parts and cars work day after day. And then there are all these other motions. People are born and die. Seasons change. Rivers flow to the sea. Earth circles the sun and the moon circles Earth. Everything whirring and spinning toward something. And I get to be part of it for a little while, the way I get to watch a train for a minute or two, and then it’s gone.” The way I get to be part of your life before you’re gone, and I’m left here, watching trains pass me by too.
His cheeks flushed and he looked at the ground, preparing himself for whatever clever thing Lydia had to say. “Anyway. Sorry. Weird.” He glanced over at her. She stared at the tracks.
“No,” Lydia said, all teasing gone from her voice. “Not weird. I mean, obviously you’re still generally weird—let’s not get carried away—but that’s not weird.”
Almost on cue, a train whistle sounded in the distance.
As the train approached, they got up off the picnic table and stood near the tracks, close enough to feel the wind from the train. Dill experienced the familiar rapturous rush of excitement and adrenaline as it neared and began laying on the whistle. That orgasmic rise as the clamor and energy of it built, threatening to overwhelm his senses, until it was right upon him. He closed his eyes and listened to its various parts. Wheels squealing on the rails. The chug-chug-chug of one of the cars. He absorbed its violence and brawn as it slithered past, a massive steel serpent. That pounding, pulsing din stirred something in him.
He’s thirteen and standing at the front of his father’s church with the rest of the praise band. He’s wearing his too-large electric guitar, playing as loud and fast as he can while the drums and bass jar the flimsy walls and low particleboard ceiling of the tiny church. He makes mistakes left and right, but nobody notices because they’re caught up in the Holy Spirit, and the walls also vibrate with the exalted and chaotic glossolalia of tongue speaking. Shoes and boots muddy from the unpaved parking lot stomp and make the floor quake. Several congregants, including Dill’s mother, pound tambourines.
Dill’s father stands at the front of the congregation and raises a mason jar half-filled with strychnine before taking a long swig, his eyes rolling back. He shakes his head, wipes his mouth, and shouts, “Hallelujah!” He hands it off to Dill’s mother, who sips it like it’s lemonade, passes it on, and goes back to beating her tambourine.
Dill’s father strips off his white dress shirt, down to his undershirt. He stands with his arms outstretched. Supplicants approach him and put their hands on his veiny arms and bony shoulders, seeking healing from maladies real or imagined.
A call goes up through the congregation and two of the brothers do a shuffling dance down the center aisle, a wooden box containing a snake in each of their hands. They stop and set them on the ground and Dill’s father dances up to them, clapping his hands. They pull back the chicken-wire lids on their hinges and reach into the boxes with hooked poles, pulling out two rattlesnakes and two copperheads. The brothers begin distributing them among the congregants like so many neckties. Brother McKinnon holds a rattler inches from his face, spraying it with spittle as he prays, daring the serpent to strike and test his faith.
Dill plays faster, his heart thumping, sweating in the suffocating humidity of so many animated bodies pressed into one place. His father starts in his direction, carrying a copperhead draped around his neck. He stands in front of Dill and lifts the copperhead off himself. Dill’s heart thrums in his ears. He stops playing. The bass player and drummer keep on without him, playing ever more furiously. He’s always been afraid of the snakes. He’s never taken them up before and he prays to God to cleanse his soul and to give him the faith, if this is to be the hour. And these signs shall follow them that believe. And these signs shall follow them that believe. They shall take up serpents. And these signs shall follow them that believe. They shall take up serpents. His breath leaves him.
His father reaches out to him with the thick, sinewy copperhead and Dill extends his hands. He imagines how the snake will feel when he holds it. Cool. Dry. Sleek. Pulsing with malevolent vitality. He meets his father’s eyes. His father gives him a slight, sad smile and turns away, holding the snake above his head, triumphant, before handing it off to an elderly sister. Dill breathes again. He tries to pick up the rhythm but he’s shaking too badly. He’s relieved but disappointed that his lack of faith shines through his skin.
A week later, officers arrest his father.
“Hey, Travis,” Dill said as they left Bertram Park. “Any chance your mom might be able to help me by making a birthday cake for my mom for tomorrow? I…don’t have a lot of the stuff you need to make a cake.”
“Yeah, no problem. Especially for someone from church.”
“I can come help after work.”
“Naw. Sometimes my dad’s weird about people coming over. You know.”
Dill handed over a battered package of off-brand yellow cake mix that he appeared to have snagged from work for free. “Thanks. Sorry for the late notice.”
Travis’s mom was happy to do it. He didn’t want to dump the project on her, though, so they made a little mother-son evening of it, with him pitching in to help. It was the perfect night, because his father was playing cards at a friend’s house.
“Really now, this kitchen is an absolute pigsty…,” Travis said in a horrible British accent, imitating his mom’s favorite cooking reality show host from the Food Network.
She giggled. “Oh Trav. You’re too funny.”
His mom’s laughter was one of his favorite sounds. He didn’t hear it nearly enough. Not since Matt died. He kept clowning. He dusted his face with flour and put on one of his mom’s flowered aprons. He was trying to juggle some wooden spoons when they heard Travis’s father stumble in the front door.
They immediately fell silent, hoping he might go right to bed or at least flip on the TV and pass out in front of it. Anything but coming in the kitchen and ruining their night. They stood a fair chance—Travis’s father considered the kitchen to be his mother’s exclusive domain.
No such luck. He staggered in, stinking of bourbon. The minute he saw Travis in the apron with flour on his face, he sniggered.
“Well, ithn’t thith prethiouth!” he said, slurring and lisping, gesturing with a limp wrist. “Look at my two little girlth having the betht old time!” He affected a mincing gait.
Travis smiled uneasily, hoping this was his father’s attempt at humor. The only problem was that his father never quite knew when a joke stopped being funny (or
started being funny, for that matter) when he was drunk.
Travis’s mom swept a stray bit of flour into her hand and threw it in the garbage. “Did you have fun at your game, sweetie?”
“Oh heaventh yeth! But not ath much fun ath baking a little cake in my little apron.” He staggered over to Travis and jerked hard on his apron strings, untying them. Travis turned away, avoiding eye contact. He removed the apron and quietly folded it.
“Clint,” Travis’s mother said softly. He ignored her and got in Travis’s face.
“Talked with Kenny Parham tonight. He mentioned homecoming. Since I guess you ain’t playing in the game, you at least taking a girl to the dance?” All hint of playfulness was gone from his voice.
Travis stared at the ground. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. You don’t know what? That you’re going to the dance or that you like girls? You taking your boyfriend, Dillard Early the Serpent Prince, to the dance?”
“No sir. I like girls fine. Just not dances.”
“You a fag?”
His father’s breath made his eyes water. “No sir.” He had a sudden impulse to show his father the picture of Amelia on his phone. But he knew his father would make him regret that too. Say something about Amelia’s body or face. And Travis knew that would make him do something he’d regret.
“You just get your kicks from powdering your nose and putting on aprons and baking cakes with Mama, and not going to dances?”
“No sir.” Please leave. Please leave.
His father got up even closer and spoke with menace. “If you’re a fag, I’ll teach you not to be, by God. You better man up.” He gave Travis a push. Not an especially hard push, but it caught Travis by surprise and he stumbled backward a couple of steps. He almost looked his father in the eye, but thought better of it. He stared at the ground. Just shrink away and he’ll get bored and leave. Make yourself small. That’s what he wants—for you to be small.
“Clint, honey,” Travis’s mother said gently, as if she were talking to a dangerous animal or a recalcitrant child (or some combination of the two). “Travis is a Christian. Don’t worry. Now can I fix you something to eat?”
Travis’s father belched and sauntered over to the mixing bowl. “Nope, I’m fine.” He dipped three fingers in the cake mix, and while staring Travis’s mother dead in the eye, sucked them clean and then stuck his fingers back in the bowl for a second helping.
“Oh Clint. I wish you hadn’t done that. That cake wasn’t for us.”
Travis’s father walked over to his mother. “I. Don’t. Care,” he said, poking her in the upper chest, punctuating each word. She looked away. He stood over her for a second. Travis’s fear began to turn to rage. He felt what he had felt with Alex Jimenez. Please leave. And don’t touch my mom again.
“Can’t wait to try the cake,” his father said with a smirk. He pointed at Travis. “Better not be a queer.” He stalked into the living room, where he flopped on the couch and clicked on the TV.
Travis breathed again. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. So did his mother. They made eye contact. Travis started to speak. His mother put a finger to his lips as if to say Don’t. Be careful.
“I’ll go ahead and bake this one and your dad can have it. And I’ll do another for Crystal. I have another yellow cake mix in the pantry. In fact, it’s better than the mix Dillard gave you.”
“You want help?”
She gave him a sad half-smile. “No, sweetie pie. I’ll take it from here,” she whispered.
“Dad didn’t always used to be this bad,” Travis whispered.
“I know.” She picked up a damp cloth and gently wiped the flour from Travis’s face. From the living room, they heard Travis’s father cackle at something.
Travis’s mom dumped the batter from the mixing bowl into a cake pan, bent down, and got another cake pan from under the stove. She put the mixing bowl in the sink and started to wash it with quaking hands.
Travis walked up to her and put his arms around her neck, hugging her from behind. She put her hand on his arms. “I love you, Mama,” he whispered.
He managed greater stealth than usual and sneaked past his father, who was absorbed in some sitcom rerun. Safely in his room, he turned on his decrepit laptop. It whined to life. While he waited for it to boot up, he ran hypothetical scenarios in his head—ones where he stood up to his father. Where he didn’t slink around and shrink from him. Where he didn’t let his father make him feel small and worthless. His loathing of his father kept circling back to self-loathing. Why aren’t you braver? At least for your mom’s sake? You’re nothing like Raynar Northbrook. He would stand up to a bully. Of course, even if you stood up to him, you’d probably just screw it up and feel even worse, like what happened with Alex.
He wanted to text Amelia. But also he didn’t. He didn’t want to look weak in front of her. But he also didn’t feel like being alone right at that moment. He didn’t think Lydia would understand because her family was so awesome. And he didn’t think Dill would understand because his family was so awful.
Travis went around in circles until finally he just did it.
Hey, he texted.
Hey yourself mister, Amelia texted back, almost immediately. How are you?
Rough. I got into it with my dad.
OMG. You ok?
Yeah. I guess I just needed cheering up.
If I were there I’d give you a huge hug and remind you that Deathstorm comes out soon.
That’s working!
His phone buzzed again. It was a photo of a baby elephant playing with a beach ball.
Yes!
A funny Bloodfall meme. And then another. And another. Travis almost laughed out loud but caught himself.
Thank you!
When we meet in person, I’m going to give you a million hugs and tell you it’s not your fault your dad is an asshole.
As Amelia’s disembodied words of encouragement continued to stream in, the warm sugar-buttery smell of baking cake filled the house.
He lit the candles the moment he heard her pull up. There were only five of them.
“Dillard, you home?” she called out when she entered the dark house.
“In here, Mom.”
She walked into the kitchen, where Dill stood behind the cake, candlelight illuminating his face. “Happy birthday!”
She shook her head and set down her things. “Dillard Wayne Early, what have you done?”
Dill grinned. “I made you this cake. Sort of. I got the stuff and Travis’s mom made it. It turned out a lot better than if I’d done it, I promise.”
She smiled. “I don’t even—”
“Well. What are you waiting for? Blow out the candles. Let’s have a piece or two.”
She sat down and blew out the candles. They sat in the dark for a second while Dill fumbled for the light switch.
“Did you make a wish?”
“I sure did. I wished for—”
“No, no, you can’t tell me. Then the wish won’t come true. Besides, I can probably guess.”
“Wishes don’t matter anyway. Prayer does.”
Dill got up and grabbed a knife, two forks, and two plates. He pulled out the candles and cut two large pieces of the vanilla-frosted yellow cake.
“Did your work do anything special for your birthday?”
“The gals on the cleaning staff put their money together and got me a twenty-dollar gift card to Walgreens. I think I’ll buy a little something and see if they’ll cash out the rest. We need stamps to write your father.”
“I think you should spend it on yourself,” Dill said.
“There isn’t anything I want.”
“Get some of your favorite candy or lotion or something.”
She thought for a second. “Maybe we’ll go for an ice cream.”
“I really wish you’d spend it on yourself. It’s your present.”
“We’ll see.” They sat silently and ate their cake. Dill finished his f
irst. It was delicious. And as they sat there, something came over him. It seemed as good a time as any to bring it up.
“While we’re talking about money, what if there were a way for me to make us a lot more money than I’d make at Floyd’s, even as a manager? What would you think about that?”
She gave a rueful laugh through a bite. “Oh, that’d be great. As long as you aren’t proposing to sell drugs.”
“No. But what I’m talking about would mean that we still have to spend a few more years with me not making as much as I’d make full time at Floyd’s.”
She took another bite of cake. “I’m not following,” she said, but her eyes said I hope I’m not following.
“I’m talking about what if I were maybe to go to college. People who—”
She shook her head and put up her hand. “No.”
“But Mom, listen to me. You didn’t let me finish.”
“No. No need. I know what you’re going to say and what my answer will be.”
“Mom, I talked with Lydia, and she told me about how much more money college graduates make over non–college graduates and—”
“Oh Lydia, of course. She sure does say the things that are easy for her to say, doesn’t she?”
“But she has a point. If we sacrificed a few years so that I could go to college, I could get a better job and help you more. It’d be like”—Dill racked his brain for some Bible analogy that would encompass the idea of short-term loss in favor of long-term gain—“how we sacrifice the opportunity to do certain sinful things, so that we can live in heaven with Jesus.”
“Sin is not an opportunity. Following Jesus isn’t a sacrifice. He did all the sacrificing.”
“I was trying to come up with something to compare it to.”
“Come up with something else.”
“Think of all I’d learn in college.”
“You’d learn that you’re too good for God. That we came from monkeys. You’d learn a lot.”
“College would give me more options in life.”
“You don’t need options in life. You need Jesus. Options are fine if you’ve got them, but we don’t. We don’t have the money.”