by Anna Shinoda
It was, of course, all Peter’s fault.
I’d been lying on the grass next to Drea, in my most favorite bikini ever, my hair still wet from my last laps across the lake, listening to my iPod—well, I should say Peter’s iPod.
“Hey, buttface!” Then there was Peter, standing over me, chewing sunflower seeds with an open mouth, his pack of friends chewing and spitting behind him.
“I didn’t say you could borrow that.” He spit a shell on me, which landed in the pool of sweat on my stomach. I scowled, brushing it off.
“Yes, you did.” Well, at least he had before.
“That was yesterday, assmunch,” he said.
“You weren’t home this morning,” I said.
“I’m taking it back.” He sent another shell flying in my direction.
“Stop spitting on me!” I stood up, standing on my tiptoes, trying to make my eyes even with his. “Oooooh. So tough,” he taunted.
“You aren’t even going to use it. You work this afternoon, pizza boy. If you are still employed.” The music was a key part of my perfect day. I planned to fight for it. “It’s mine and I’m taking it back.” He stooped to grab the iPod. Drea nabbed it first and handed it to me as I ran past her. It was so smooth, I bet people thought we’d planned it.
“Bitch!” Peter yelled behind me.
I ran. Straight across the grass, jumping over classmates sleeping on towels, running through picnics and barbecues. People yelled, “Hey! Watch it!” I caught a glimpse of Skeleton running beside me, picking up a soda from one picnic, a chicken leg off the barbecue of another, reminding everyone, including me, that Peter and I were Luke’s brother and sister.
Peter was getting closer, closer.
I turned. Started running down the slope. In one move Peter snatched his iPod from my hand and shoved my back. I saw the brick stairs. There was no other way to land.
Everyone around us heard the snap.
My jagged forearm bone stuck through the flesh. There was too much blood. Too much of my blood. The last thing I heard was Drea screaming for help. Then I must have decided that passing out would be the best plan.
I was in an ambulance. Then the hospital. Surgery. A metal plate and some screws. Stitches on my arm, under a cast. Stitches on my forehead. Words like “shattered pieces” used to describe my forearm.
Mom, stroking my hair, said, “You are lucky it’s only a broken arm and that you’re going to be okay.” Then, suddenly angry, she crossed her arms. “Do you realize how expensive this is going to be? Why can’t you leave your brother’s things alone?” When I didn’t say a word, she pried, “Explain yourself, young lady.”
I couldn’t see Skeleton, but I could hear his bones clink, clink, clinking together.
Peter stood behind Mom, red puffy eyes, his face anguished. When she left the room for coffee, he sat on the edge of my bed. “Sorry, Clare. Sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”
Chapter 33
My Own Eyes
NOW
Granny’s barn reaches up to the sky, rickety and holey, ready to be put to its final rest. Eye-level weeds engulf the land around, showing the top of Papa’s rusted tractor. Why would she want the barn fixed? We should tear it down.
“Let’s put anything burnable here,” Mom says as she hurls a busted-up tire to mark the spot, “which I hope will be most everything. Then we can torch the whole thing.”
“What?” I exclaim. Air pollution, anyone? “We can’t burn all this junk.”
Mom glares. “Yes, we can. Tennessee law permits it. As far as the old cars and stuff go, maybe we can get a tow truck to come out here and remove them in exchange for parts. I’ll be inside calling around, keeping Granny company.”
I’m planning to turn and complain to Luke that we have to work in a hundred-degree weather and 90 percent humidity. But he’s already hard at it, grazing the weeds down low with the weed whacker. He marches through the sea of tall grass as if he knows there is nothing to fear, no snakes hiding, no red anthills, no rats or mice.
“Hey, Squeaks”—Luke turns off the machine for a moment—“here’s the plan: I’m gonna whack everything down. You throw it all in the burn pile. Be careful. Peter stepped on a hive one summer. He looked like a puffer fish.” Luke laughs at the memory.
“What about snakes? And rats?” I ask, eyeballing the weeds warily.
“Just keep your eyes open. I don’t want you getting hurt.” Luke starts up the motor again. “AND IF YOU DO, SCREAM LOUD SO I CAN HEAR YOU!”
Like that makes me feel any better. But I scoop up a bunch of weeds, grateful that Mom forced me to wear long sleeves, long pants, and gloves. Armful by armful our burn pile becomes a mountain. We find rotten boards, a rusted hook, ruined tires, and a sack of old marbles, dirty and scuffed but still whole. Luke puts down the weeder to help me finish cleaning up his trail. The sun is already low. My back burns when I stand upright, and my arms itch despite the sleeves.
“Nice pile, Squeaks. You as tired as I am?” Luke lugs a last few massive armloads of trash to the mountain, and we are done for the day.
After dinner he announces that he’s going to go shoot pool.
Granny looks up from a half-eaten slice of berry pie.
“Going to Albert’s? You should bring Clare. You’ve earned some fun,” Granny says. “Now go on. I’ll do these dishes.”
I’m so tired, I can barely hold up my fork, but at least I get to go to the pool hall with Luke instead of doing the dishes and playing Chinese checkers.
We enter Albert’s from the back, passing stinking Dumpsters and green splinters of glass. It’s dark inside, with the four pool tables lit like little shrines across the room. Neon signs—budweiser, pabst blue ribbon, heineken, corona, mgd, guinness—and a few strings of chili pepper lights around the bar provide the only other illumination. Luke picks a table and goes to grab us drinks. There are only eight other people here, including the bartender.
I pull out my cell phone and check. Finally! Service. I’ve got nothing at Granny’s house.
“At pool hall w/Luke,” I text Drea. “3 normal ppl. Rest are winners. Think: Night of the Living Dead (1968 version).”
Luke chats with the bartender, whose shiny bald head reflects a green glow from the Heineken sign behind him. I can’t hear anything they are saying over some old rock song blaring from a jukebox in the corner. A scrawny woman with brown roots two inches deep into a long mess of orange hair sidles up to Luke. Leans against the bar.
“Woman hitting on Luke. Questioning when her last bath was.” No response from Drea. I’m bummed. I should let her know I can’t text from Granny’s. I type, and also send the same texts to Omar. He texts back,
“Don’t let zombies eat yr brains.”
Shiny Head puts the drinks down in front of Luke, but Luke stays to talk to the woman for a few more minutes before she goes back to the group of her three zombie friends shooting a game one table over from us.
Finally Luke brings over my Coke and his Coors, then hands me a cue stick. We play pool. Or maybe I should say I try to play pool and Luke demolishes me every time. He attempts to teach me how, claiming that since I got an A in geometry it should help, but if my aim is on, the speed that I hit the ball is off. Lack of practice trumps my mathematical experience. But it’s fun. Nice to be out with Luke, without Skeleton, without the heavy stares we get back at home. I’m relaxed here, even starting to enjoy the tacky décor and the jumble of songs I don’t recognize.
Luke grabs another Coors for himself and more Coke for me. The caffeine is starting to kick in and I’m not so dead tired anymore. The woman with orange hair joins Luke at the bar again. She says something. They laugh. Then Luke gives a wave to the other zombies with greasy hair and sunken cheeks. They raise their glasses to him. Why couldn’t he be making friends with the three normal-looking people throwing darts in the corner?
Albert’s closes. As I ease Papa’s truck from the pool hall, Luke’s
new friends huddle together by the Dumpster. I swear I see cash exchange hands. I look over to Luke in the passenger seat, his eyes closed, his head resting against his hands behind his head. Mom brought him here to get him away from Dan, to get him working. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe Luke knows where to find the Dans, regardless of what city or town he’s in. But for the moment Luke is here, with me, heading back to Granny’s house. A few beers deep, but that’s all.
“I think you’ll be more helpful cleaning the house,”
Mom announces after watching me work the second day. “You really haven’t gotten much done out here.” Wow. Thanks, Mom. That’s really nice of you. Way to make your daughter—who, by the way, is practically getting sunstroke out here—feel motivated.
At least I get to be inside, where it’s a couple degrees cooler. That afternoon we get mail from Dad. Luke’s driver’s license has arrived. After dinner Luke heads to the Big Boot Saloon, leaving me, under-twentyone Clare, at home, playing a mean game of Chinese checkers against Granny and Mom. Mom wins. Granny comes in second. I lose, twice in a row, before heading to my room to work on Ryan’s beanie, until I’m so tired that I can’t keep my eyes open. I hear Luke tiptoe through our room to find his bed at around one a.m.
He’s up the next morning brewing coffee in the kitchen even before I get up. Mom’s got a new job for him today. I watch out the window as he blasts the peeling paint off the barn with a power sander rented from the hardware store. By the time he comes in that night, he’s coated with dust like a shake-and-bake chicken. A hot shower puts him in good spirits. He stays in, beating all of us at Chinese checkers.
After a few days I have Granny’s routine down. It’s three in the afternoon. Granny’s taking her nap, Mom’s out talking to Realtors, and I am scrubbing a toilet, wondering if there is enough chicken to make dinner for everyone tonight. This is pathetic; I’m like a 1950s housewife. Omar and Chase would have enough material to make jokes to last our entire senior year.
I rinse the toilet brush, throw it under the sink, rip off my rubber cleaning gloves, and head toward the kitchen.
Luke is there, holding Granny’s coffee can with one hand, pulling bills out with the other.
“Luke?” I feel Skeleton walk into the room. Feel him standing behind me.
“Hey. Clare. Um, Squeakers. Need anything from the store? Granny asked me to get flour.”
I bought flour two days ago. I open the cabinet and point to the large sack, so full it might burst.
“She must be confused; I just bought some,” I tell him. Skeleton picks up the deflated bag of sugar next to the flour and shakes it. I give Luke the benefit of the doubt. “Maybe she meant sugar. Looks like we’re almost out.”
Luke readily agrees. “Okay. I can get sugar. Anything else?”
“Chicken for dinner tonight. And, Luke”—I point to the coffee can—“don’t take cash from there. That’s Granny’s emergency fund.” I open the drawer next to the sink and grab a ten-dollar bill, leaving a five. Chicken will be about five or six dollars, the sugar around two. I hold out the bill.
He drops the money back into the can, taking the ten from my hand. As he grabs the truck keys from the hook next to the door, he says, “I think the truck needs gas too,” and he takes the last five dollars from the drawer. We filled up the tank yesterday, together, on our way back from the hardware store. I bite my lip.
As the old truck sputters down the dirt road, I open Granny’s coffee can. Only $137.00 is left. There was $607.00 when Mom and I counted it the first day we got here. I wish Granny had put the money in a bank, where it would have been safe, instead of in this stupid coffee can. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at Skeleton anymore, hoping he’ll be gone when I open them.
“Maybe Granny really did tell him to get groceries,” I say out loud to Skeleton, my eyes still clamped shut. “Maybe she’s been taking money from the can herself. Maybe he didn’t steal the money.”
Maybe he did.
Probably he did.
Should I tell Granny? No, not Granny. What about Mom? The one thing we’ve agreed on is loving Luke regardless of what he’s done. Giving him second chances. Trusting him. I think about telling her, just to get her advice. But I decide I can’t. She’ll tell me I’m mistaken. Or worse, she’ll find a way to blame me. Making the missing money somehow my responsibility, my fault it’s gone. I decide to keep my mouth shut.
We wait for Luke to come home. He always takes good care of his tools, putting them away when he’s done working for the day. His toolbox sits open next to the barn until the sun sets. It’s nearly time to eat, so I make pasta instead of chicken. Luke misses dinner. Mom goes to bed, but Granny and I stay up, our knitting needles clicking in syncopated time. We talk about our projects—her blanket for a friend’s greatgranddaughter, my beanies—talking around the subject we are both thinking about: Luke. Finally, around eleven p.m., Granny stands up.
“I’m going to hit the hay,” she announces. “You probably don’t want to wait up for him, Clare dear.”
“Just a little while longer—” I start.
“Clare.” Granny lowers herself back next to me. “I spent many nights on that couch waiting for your grandfather. Your brother is going to struggle with those alcohol demons. Maybe he’ll end up sober. Maybe after he does something that he’ll regret forever. And maybe he won’t. But I can tell you one thing: Sitting on that couch waiting is just a waste of time.”
“Granny?” My jaw has dropped down in surprise. “I didn’t know Papa . . .”
“It’s nothing to talk about. By the time you were born, he was done with all that. Heck, I haven’t even cooked with wine for over thirty years.” She gives my knee a pat, then uses the armrest to help herself stand up. “Now go on up to bed. Looking at the door won’t bring him home any faster.”
At the bottom of the stairs, I take a breath, hold it for a few seconds, before letting it go. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. Still, climbing these stairs alone gives me the creeps. I’m the Cowardly Lion. I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I wish I could magically appear in the bedroom. But I can’t, so I hold my breath and run up the stairs as fast as my legs can go.
I stay up late, lying in bed, pretending to read and listening, listening, listening. Granny is right. Worrying is not going to bring Luke home any faster. I think of her and maybe even my mom, sitting on the couch together, acting like they were playing Chinese checkers, but really waiting for Papa to come back from the bar. I try to imagine what he was like when he drank. Angry? Careless? Silly? Scary? An involuntary shiver makes me pull the covers up as I think of Granny saying, “Maybe he’ll end up sober. Maybe after he does something that he’ll regret forever.”
I don’t want to think of Papa any differently than I always have. His deep voice humming old prayer hymns as he took junk and melted it down to create something new. His leathery hands pulling a brush down a cow’s back. His frame, so thick and tall that it made the tractor look small. And in the late evenings him sitting on the front porch, smoking a cigarette and staring up at the stars, naming off constellations to me. I can’t think of him any other way. Just like I want to remember only the good things Luke does.
Luke. I shouldn’t have let him take all that money. This is partially my fault. If I’d told him we didn’t need any groceries, maybe he’d be here in his bed right now. Late that night I wake up hearing the truck loudly bouncing up the driveway. From the second story window I see Luke fall from the driver’s side. Sugar bag in hand. He trips on the three little stairs leading to the back door. Holding the house key, his hand moves back and forth, up and down in little circles. After several stabs the key slides into the lock. He’s so fucking wasted. I’m tempted to run downstairs and yell at him. But images of broken windows and a trail of blood make me pause. I turn on my nightstand light and grab my book, letting the words push away my thoughts. When I’m too tired to read another line, I lie on my back, eyes focused on the door
.
He doesn’t come up to our room. Somehow I eventually fall back asleep.
In the morning I find Luke flopped on the couch. Still fully dressed, shoes on and all. Snoring heavily. The smell of urine, beer, and something sour fills the living room.
The bag of sugar is on the kitchen counter. Along with one dollar change. Only one dollar. And no chicken. Checking the truck, I’m relieved to find that at least the tank is almost full. When I go back to the living room, Mom and Granny and Skeleton stand near the couch, looking cautiously over, the way someone would look over a cliff.
Granny says, “We need to pray for him.”
Skeleton shoves Luke.
“Should I wake him?” I want to help. I let him take the money. I even gave it to him. I should have sent him out to the barn to work again, said we didn’t need anything. But. I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to come back with a full tank of gas and sugar and chicken and change, all before dinner. I wanted him to show me that he wasn’t going to screw up.
“Don’t,” Mom warns. “Let him sleep it off.”
He needs to get up. To prove that he isn’t going to do this again. Not to us again. I reach down to shake his shoulder.
Mom catches my arm. Says sternly, “Clare. Luke is intoxicated. Don’t wake him. It’s dangerous.” Then she changes the subject. “You’ve been doing a good job in here taking care of Granny, but I could use your help painting the barn today.”
The paint glides on, thick like honey but as smooth as oil. Luke did a good job blasting the wood evenly. Working with the direction of the sun, we paint the shaded side, moving along to another when it gets too sunny, west to east.
Granny makes sandwiches and brings them to us when the church bells chime noon. We silently chomp in the shade, sitting on grass and ignoring the beast, still sleeping on the couch, just as we left him that morning.
At the end of the day, I gather trash to add to the pile. Mom leans down, the sun at her back, sinking, sinking into the surrounding fields. She lights the pile in one little corner, her hand, surprisingly, trembling.