Rusty Summer

by Mary McKinley

The next day, after practice, where I am officially yelled at for still not having a name, though I do have a really good drill, I shower and head home.

  Nobody is there when I arrive. There are the remains of a nice dinner on the dining room table, which we hardly ever use. A dinner for two.

  In the kitchen I find a plate and a note:

  Rye—eat this! We are at a movie—L8R~!

  I look the plate over. Yum! Copper River salmon!! And spuds! And new peas! Oh, Snap!

  I get a glass of water and a napkin and sit down to eat and ponder:

  Nobody home but us excellent leftovers. It’s obvious they’re on a date.

  Wow . . . Beau and Scott.

  It’s kind of weird. I’m really glad and all, but, well, things will be different now. Scott will be around a lot, or Beau will be gone. Gratefully, I recall I really like Scott. It’s fine if he’s here. It’s great.

  But the whole “third wheel” thing, y’know? I don’t want to be in the way. I mean, gay or straight, sometimes three’s a crowd.

  I’m just finishing when I hear them in the driveway. Frantically I bolt upstairs. I have no idea why. I stand in the doorway of my room, listening. Shamelessly eavesdropping. (I know what that word means—now!)

  They come in laughing about the movie, though they don’t say which one, and go into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open and figure they are having dessert or something. Their voices become indistinct and muffled.

  I go inside and close the door of my room. I’ll come down and say hi later, like I’ve been online or something. Give them some space.

  The next morning we see the uncles off. They are taking light rail to the airport, though I said I would drive them. They said they want the adventure, so we drive downtown to say, “See ya.” They are staying at a posh hotel and they have their carry-on bags all good to go. Experienced travelers! We plop on the hotel room bed, waiting till they are ready. I’m feeling fidgety.

  “What’s up, lil’ sugar beet?” Uncle Oscar asks.

  I shrug. “Nothin’. Why?”

  “You have a restless and unfinished look about you.”

  “I do?” I look in the mirror as we leave to walk to the light rail.

  “Yes. Doesn’t she, Frank?”

  Uncle Frankie leans in and peers at me. He has merry eyes. They have friendly crow’s feet.

  “Yes, definitely! You look like you could use a vacation.” He smiles. I make a face and smooch his cheek. We laugh.

  “Well, I don’t know why. I just got back from a trip,” I say as we arrive at the nearby station.

  We enter the Westlake light rail and descend. Inside the wind blows fitfully, underground. We just miss a train, but oh, well. There’s another one every ten minutes.... We wait . . .

  “Well, maybe that wasn’t your trip,” Uncle Frankie says with a shrug, resuming the conversation.

  I look at him. Not my trip? It was my idea! Besides, I’m a caravan! All I do is trip!

  “Just keep an open mind . . . that’s all.” Frank puts his hand on my shoulder. A train pulls up.

  We all hug quickly and they hop in. The doors close and we stand smiling and memorizing each other through the windows for an instant, and then they are whooshed away.

  That night I have a dream. Actually it starts out as a nightmare.

  I’m at the grocery store in Kodiak, shopping for pickled okra, and when I turn I see my uncle Riley. He’s white as a sheet and doesn’t have the back of his head and he’s covered with blood. His brains are all down one side of him and I freak and try to run away, but the floor is made of Jell-O and all I can do is sink immediately up to my neck and flail slowly as he walks over to me, pausing to rest several times. Wherever he tarries leaves a little pool of blood. Terrified, I try to scream but I’m so stuck it’s like screaming underwater.

  “Hey, lil’ Rylee!’ ” he hollers at me, and suddenly, as horrible as he looks, I’m not afraid anymore—I remember when he actually used to call me that. And just like that, I’m calm.

  “Hey, big Riley!” I call back, like I did when I was four. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Nope!” he says. “It’s okay! Turns out that was where I kept the Sad.”

  He gets closer and sees me stuck. “You are in a lemon tar pit,” he explains. “Here’s a rope.” He throws me one made of red licorice. It’s strong and long and I climb out, vertical yet weirdly weightless, like on old Batman episodes.

  He brushes me off and then licks his hand. “You are very sweet,” he proclaims solemnly. “Don’t forget it . . . okay? And don’t forget me—I’m everywhere. All of us are . . . ! Are you scared?”

  “No. Yeah. Kind of.”

  “Is that gonna stop you?” He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.

  “No,” I say, and mean it. “No, it won’t.”

  “Okay! I’ll see you on the road!” Riley says. He is becoming translucent . . . kind of ghostly . . .

  And I wake up.

  I lie in bed for a few minutes before I shake it off, shower, and dress.

  I call my mom. She’s not thrilled but she’s okay. I spend the morning preparing. I am very efficient. Then I am ready.

  It’s time.

  I look over at The Bomb.

  Her car window is down partway and she’s looking out with her tongue blowing in the breeze. She’s riding shotgun. It’s just her and me—

  We’re in The Deer Hunter, which is whippin’ like butter! Again!

  Blast off!! We are going on a trip! Mine, all mine!!

  We are heading east. I got the plan from my dream.

  The Plan: Nothing is Written in Stone.

  That’s the official one, but I’m open to suggestions, which have come in the form of several invitations from awesome Facebook people that I have been cyber-tight with for years.

  I’m thinking about all the places these folks are and all the places in the Lower 48 that I’ve never seen. I can hear the romance of the road—America, with her wide spaces and open roads and her battered, unbreakable dream—she’s calling me.

  And I can’t think of a single reason not to answer, and go visit.

  The sheer scope of the possibilities suddenly engulfs me! I am FREE!

  I’ll start north and work east—unless I don’t!

  At this point, my tentative plan includes I-90 to Chicago, unless I go rogue and totally shitcan civilization, as Gramcracker puts it—in which case the sky’s the limit! So many choices!

  Should I go to New York, the most amazing place I’ve never been, aka The Big Apple—or maybe go be a fan girl of Prince for a day in Minneapolis, aka The Mini Apple? Or hit the East Coast, and head immediately down the eastern seaboard. I always wanted to see Athens, GA, hometown of rock stars and artists and pugs dressed like Winston Churchill. I might just go there.

  Or not . . .

  I could go to Vegas, baby—Vegas! Or the Grand Canyon! Or I could head into the Deep South, see the hanging moss of the swamps, actually see a bayou—I could follow Sherman’s March to the Sea and then turn right and keep going till I get to that long-ass bridge in the Keys, in Florida—Oh! I’d totally love to see a manatee! But maybe I’ll stay down by the bayou and meet Uncle Oscar’s friends, The Gorgeous Queens of New Orleans—I’ll check out the French Quarter, which I have always wanted to explore—I’ve seen the movies with the crazy aboveground graveyards and hopefully only non-sparkly vampires.

  So many unmade choices!

  I get all hopped up just imagining all these places in our amazing, free-to-go anywhere country. I can hardly wait. My only firm plan is keeping an eye on time so I can eventually hook up with Leo and Uncle Oscar in L.A. for her thing.

  I roll down my window an inch and sniff the warm, dry wind.

  My phone rings. I answer without taking my eyes from the empty road. It’s Bashy.

  “What is your name?!” It sounds so funny I laugh. “All’s you have to do is tell me the name and then we don’t have anything else for
Derby till September!”

  “It’s The Guy Going East!” I joke. Though I actually am headed east.

  “Now what are you talking about?!”

  “I bounced!” I say simply. “I’m on a walkabout!”

  “A what?!” she asks, perplexed.

  “A journey to find myself! A magical mystery tour! Listen.” I put the phone to my speakers. It’s my ’60s antiwar music—all she can hear is “FREEEEEEEE!”—which is booming out into the phone; ’cuz those are pretty much the lyrics for every song from the ’60s.

  “I’m going on a pilgrimage, Bashy. I want to see America, just like they used to do in the olden days! Maybe I’ll meet some Facebook friends, but maybe I’ll just go on a walkabout all by myself—oh, and The Bomb. She’s here too,” I add. “Also, I decided I am going to the Veterans Hospital in every city I stay in and see what I can do for an hour or two in the afternoon, to show my awareness of their existence . . . no big, just for the day; hear their stories, read out loud if someone’s bored, whatever. Right? I mean, whether or not I agree with the politics that messed them up doesn’t mean they’re not courageous, ’cuz they are! And they have been messed up! So I’m going to go meet some vets and try to say thanks with actions instead of words. Maybe I’ll learn something important—for sure I will. I don’t know, Bashy; it came to me in a dream.” I say lightly, but I am serious. I’m goofing because I start to feel myself getting too preachy again.

  “Well . . .” she admits, “that is pretty cool. But dang, girl, you just got back! What should I tell them when they ask where you are now? That you bounced again?! When are you going to stay put? They are gonna wanna know if you even want to be a Throttle Rocket anymore, Rylee. Jeez, I mean, I just finished telling them that you skated.” She sounds so put out that I simmer down.

  “Tell them I’ll be back long before the start of next season,” I promise. “Besides, that’s when my new TV job starts.”

  “Yeah—’kay . . . whatever.” Bashy’s sulking.

  Then suddenly I know my name. It was right there all along. I just wasn’t paying attention.

  “Omg! It’s Rusty Skates,” I say quietly, having a realization. It’s so obvious I grin out loud.

  “What? I—n’t hear—u!” hollers Bashy’s lil’ phone voice. She’s breaking up. We are far away.

  “Rusty Skates!” I yell.

  “I—ink—’re—eaki—up . . . !”

  “RUSTY SKATES!” I scream. “EXCLAMATION POINT!! LIKE A HEADLINE!”

  “O-kay—gawd, I can totally hear you!” she says directly in my ear. The reception is back.

  “Bashy, I know my name! Tell them I’ll see them in a few weeks! Take it easy, Bashy Bayou! Lots of Love from RUSTY SKATES! See you sooner!!” I bellow at her joyfully and hang up.

  We drive. This is good. We settle in.

  The day is hot. I look over to The Bomb. She is chill. Her tongue lolls as she smiles at me.

  We are over the mountain pass, deep into the flat farms and golden wine country of Eastern Washington. The hazy horizon fades into forever.

  Soaring, I roll down the window and crank the tunes.

  In Remembrance

  To our vets,

  The ones who didn’t come back and to the ones who did,

  wounded in ways seen and unseen.

  Let our choices be worthy of their valor.

  And with love to our Mandeep Singh K.,

  who packed more punch and joie de vivre into twenty-two

  years than most people can into ninety.

  And for Loyd,

  Who left us early and often, and finally this spring; forever.

  Sweet dreams, Dad.

  Rusty’s Retro Road Trip Redux

  These are songs I dedicate to all of us, for different reasons. Some of them are 1960s protest songs I’ve been listening to, and almost all of them are retro. I’ll say who each song is for, and why.

  For Leonie

  “Woodstock,” Joni Mitchell:

  Let me start with this song, because it’s important to our story. This is the beautiful song that Leonie wowed us with. You will be able to tell The Bomb’s part pretty easily.

  “Love Is the Seventh Wave,” Sting:

  For Leo, to remember there is a deeper wave than this.

  “Layla,” Eric Clapton:

  What all guys seem to have to feel for Leonie—(sub “Leo” for “Layla”)!!

  “Guinevere,” Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young:

  This is what Greg would say to Leonie if he could.

  “Fragile,” Sting:

  For Leo, because she is still learning to be free.

  For Beau

  “Memory of a Free Festival,” David Bowie:

  This is a strange and beautiful story song. I learned all the words after Beau told me his mom used to sing it to him for a lullaby. I totally love Gina!

  For my League Wives

  “We Bout It,” Derby Girl:

  One of our favorites to skate to.

  “Boys Wanna Be Her,” Peaches:

  This song makes me skate better. It’s hypnotic.

  “Rebel Girl,” Bikini Kill:

  In your game face!

  “Skatez On,” Lumidee (ft. Boogie Black):

  Another one to rock the drill.

  For Me

  “Losing My Religion,” REM:

  Because, duh.

  “Landslide,” Fleetwood Mac:

  This is a song for me . . . maybe.

  “Piece of My Heart,” Janis Joplin:

  This is a song for Shane. Even though he doesn’t mean to.

  “Tell Me True,” Sarah Jarosz:

  This song is from me to Shane. Seriously.

  “Space Oddity,” David Bowie:

  I heard this song when I was high, talking to the Man in the Moon.

  “The Israelites,” Desmond Dekker and the Aces:

  I love this song—it’s too fun to sing along with.

  “America,” Simon and Garfunkel:

  Beautiful love song about our country, which I now mean to discover.

  For My Mom

  “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” Simon & Garfunkel:

  Because she is.

  “Blowin’ in the Wind,” Bob Dylan:

  I included this because I heard it at Mass a lot. Love you, Mom.

  For The Bomb

  “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog,” Three Dog Night:

  A goofy song she would like (sung by three dogs! :~)

  For My Dad

  “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone,” The Temptations:

  For obvious reasons, I dedicate this to my dad.

  “Free Bird,” Lynyrd Skynyrd:

  Because this bird you cannot change. That’s you, Dad.

  “Cat’s in the Cradle,” Harry Chapin:

  This one’s for you too, Dad. Sorry.

  “Helpless,” Neil Young:

  How I have felt throughout most of this damn trip.

  “Bullets,” Fred Eaglesmith:

  This song I dedicate to my dad. Shane turned us on to Fred Eaglesmith.

  “Hurt,” Johnny Cash:

  My dad’s song, but also Uncle Riley’s. I can’t decide.

  “Cool Change,” Little River Band:

  For my dad—on the ocean and happy. May you always be so!

  Antiwar Songs, for Uncle Riley

  “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die Rag,” Country Joe and the Fish:

  One of the most pissed-off songs of its era.

  “For What It’s Worth,” Buffalo Springfield:

  I love this song for its viewpoint—from the eyes of a soldier.

  “When I’m Gone,” 3 Doors Down:

  More importantly: Love me while I’m here. Obviously this is for Uncle Riley—and all our vets.

  “WAR,” Edwin Starr:

  I LOVE to sing this really loud! For Uncle Riley—Everybody: HUH!

  “19,” Paul Hardcastle:

  The average age of DRAFTED American soldiers in Vietnam!!
Think about it.

  “Fortunate Son,” John Fogerty:

  Clear-eyed dis of upper-class rule—that only sends the underprivileged kids into combat . . . to this day. It’s not volunteer if the military’s the only way you can eat, or the only way you can get an education.

  “Jumping Jack Flash,” Rolling Stones:

  A super-popular song for the American soldiers in Vietnam.

  “The Boxer,” Simon and Garfunkel:

  A song of leaving, for my Uncle Riley.

  “Vincent,” Don McLean:

  For Uncle Riley, who went away.

  “Once I Was,” Tim Buckley:

  This song is so beautiful. It is the score to the final scene in Coming Home, an amazing movie about returning soldiers. My grandma says the ending scene should be on an endless loop on those big public screens in Times Square whenever there is talk of war—as a reminder. See it.