Where You Are

by J. H. Trumble

  “I’m sure going to try.”

  I figure I have two choices—refuse and say good night, or dance. Oh, what the hell. “Okay.” As Adam Levine’s hook segues into Travie McCoy’s rap, I spin three-sixty, crack my knuckles, and then I show him what I got.

  The look on his face is first one of surprise, but soon he’s watching my footwork, moving his shoulders and head to the music.

  “Woo-hoo. Dance party!” someone calls out. We’re joined by three other kids leaving the party, attracted to the music like moths to a light. Among them is one of my former freshmen, Aneecia Moore. She’s a big girl, maybe five-ten, but damn she can move. She dances with me, then grabs Robert’s arm and pulls him away from the car. Two more join our group.

  When the song is over, the kids move on as quickly as they arrived. Aneecia turns to walk backward and gives a hoot. “Mr. Mc-Nel-is can dance! You been holding out on us, Mr. Mac.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I respond and wave her on.

  When I turn back to Robert, he’s smiling broadly.

  “Do I pass muster?”

  “Hmm. I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “You’ll get back to me on that,” I mutter, smiling. I take out my phone to check the time.

  “Is that your daughter?” Robert asks, craning his neck to get a look at the background photo.

  “That’s my Kiki,” I answer, holding it out to him for a better look.

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “That she is.”

  “Do you have some more?”

  He’s going to wish he never asked that. I pull up my photo album and flip through the photos, explaining where each was taken and why. There’s even a photo of Maya in a baseball cap and big sunglasses. Her hair is stuffed up in the cap and she’s holding Kiki in the air. I snapped the photo just as she was turning away. You can’t see her face, but her smile is mirrored in Kiki’s. It’s one of my favorite photos of them. When Robert asks about her, I say, “Long story. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  I slip my phone back in my pocket, and that’s when I see the guard practice rifle on his backseat. I can’t resist. “Can I?” I ask, opening the back door to get it out. It’s white with a black bolt and a black strap, and scarred—the end pads scuffed and pitted from repeated drops on the concrete.

  I think it must be a law of nature—if you find yourself with a baton in your hand, you’re going to twirl it. Same thing with a guard rifle. I give it a spin and a toss, then duck when it clatters down over my head.

  “You okay?” Robert asks.

  “Shit. That hurts.”

  “It’s almost five pounds of wood designed to injure anyone within a three-foot radius of the tossee, including the tossee. If you want to play with my rifle, then you gotta learn to handle it.”

  “Oh, I do?” I say, biting back a grin despite the pain in my cranium.

  “Yeah, you do.”

  He picks up the rifle and for the next ten minutes or so—despite good-natured taunts from other friends leaving the dance—he teaches me to do a single rifle toss, which consists of holding the rifle palm up in my left hand, and palm down in my right, then pushing the butt down with my right and up with my left and releasing when the nose is pointed at the ground. The rifle rotates once, and I catch it with my hands in the opposite position, the rifle pointing in the opposite direction. Or something like that.

  It’s tricky, but with some focused practice, I finally get it.

  “Guard rocks!” someone shouts. Robert waves back.

  He hops up onto the trunk and watches me with amusement as I flip the rifle over and over again.

  “You want to know the top-ten reasons you should date a guard member?”

  “Let’s hear ’em,” I say, giving the rifle another toss.

  “Ten, we know how to keep people in line. Nine, we’re always working on our technique. Eight, we wear tight clothes. Seven, we do it on football fields and gym floors. Six, we’re used to poles of all sizes. Five, we strive for the perfect performance. Four, we work well with our hands. Three, we’re very flexible. Two, we always want to be on top. And one, we love making people scream and yell.”

  He says all this with a straight face until he gets to number three. By then I’m laughing so hard that I lose my timing and miss a catch, almost breaking two fingers in the process. It’s not that the reasons are all that funny. They’re just so damn funny coming from him.

  I shake out my smarting fingers.

  “You want to learn a double toss?” he asks, still grinning.

  Actually, I do.

  Chapter 13

  Robert

  Mom’s asleep on the couch when I get home, the TV on low. I turn it off.

  From the hallway, I see Aunt Olivia in my parents’ bedroom, sitting on the chaise, thumbing through a box of photos that Mom keeps on a shelf in her closet. She takes one out and lays it on one of the stacks she’s made all around her.

  Then, sensing my presence, I suppose, she looks up and motions me in.

  Aunt Whitney is on the bed next to Dad. Her soft snoring and the constant hum of the oxygen compressor are the only sounds in the room. Dad seems to be asleep, too, but more likely he’s unconscious, or in a drug-induced coma. The pressure in his head makes it impossible for his eyes to fully close, and I find looking at him to be increasingly disconcerting.

  As I turn away, my eyes light briefly on the small notebook still lying on the bedside table.

  “Your mom said you went to a band dance,” Aunt Olivia says quietly.

  Her question doesn’t sound like an accusation, so I sit at the card table at the end of Mom and Dad’s bed. The puzzle is almost complete. Immediately my eyes focus on a piece. There is the tiniest sliver of brown on the otherwise blue background. I place it in the puzzle to complete the cat’s whiskers.

  “Did you have fun?” she asks.

  Best night of my life. “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  “How’s Dad?”

  She pauses in her photo search and looks up at him. “He’s calm. I don’t think he’s in any pain. The hospice nurse gave him a sponge bath today. And he’s home.” Her face contorts like she might cry, but instead she drops her eyes to the box of photos.

  I look at the notebook again. I can’t help wondering what Dad has written on those pages. Did he feel pressured to do it? Did they give him the words to say? Are they warm words of love? Or are they cold words of indifference? And why do I care? I turn my attention back to the table and fit another piece into the puzzle.

  Aunt Olivia studies the photo she’s holding. “You look so much like him when he was your age. Look at this one.” She grips the box to her chest and shifts forward on the chaise to hand it to me, being careful not to knock the other photos off.

  I take it. I’m a year old, maybe, lying on a quilt on the living room floor. Dad’s got his T-shirt pulled up over his head like Corn-holio in the Beavis and Butt-head cartoon. I’m looking up at him and laughing. I smile a little and hand the photo back and pick up another one from the pile—a photo of my dad and another man kneeling on the shore of a lake, holding up their catch.

  “I recognize that cap he’s wearing.”

  She smiles. “He loved that cap. He never went camping without it.”

  “He liked camping, didn’t he?”

  “Loved it.”

  “Who’s he with?”

  She tips the photo so she can see it better. “That’s Patrick O’Kelley,” she says, smiling nostalgically. “He’s an old college friend of your dad’s.”

  There’s a boy kneeling between the two men. Grown-ups only, Robert. I feel a lump form in my throat. “Who’s the kid?”

  “That’s Patrick’s son. Sammy, I think. You met him a long time ago, remember? You’re about the same age. I’m surprised you’re not in the photo. Didn’t you go on that trip?”

  “No.” I hand the photo back. “Are there any pictures of my mom in there?”

  “
Hmm,” she says, curiously. “I haven’t really seen any.”

  “Why is that? I mean, there are photos of Dad all over the house, but there aren’t any of Mom.”

  I’m thinking about the photos Andrew showed me in the parking lot, the way his face beamed with pride as he shuffled from one to the next. There was even a photo of his ex-wife. His ex-wife. I still find it odd that he even has an ex-wife.

  Aunt Olivia seems surprised by my question. “I don’t know. I guess your mom doesn’t like to have her picture taken.”

  That isn’t true. I’ve never once heard Mom protest when someone turned a camera on her; maybe that’s because no one, in my memory, ever has. On the other hand, there are hundreds of photos of my dad around the house—framed, in albums, in drawers, even in magnet-backed sleeves on the refrigerator door. Photos of me too. But not one of Mom.

  When I tell Aunt Olivia that I don’t believe that to be true, she sighs. “She was always the one with the camera. She took the photos. That’s just the way it was.”

  “You know, I can’t help thinking that if it were Mom dying, I wouldn’t have any photos of her after she’s gone. Nothing. Well, maybe one or two that my teacher took of us when I graduated from kindergarten and her old wedding photos.”

  “But your mom’s not dying, is she? Your dad is. You can take all the photos of your mom you want after he’s gone.”

  Her tone is sharp, unexpected, and it cuts at me. She’s missed the point entirely. I sweep the puzzle off the table and leave, ignoring the shocked look on her face.

  The rug rats have completely taken over my room. They’re sacked out on the floor in this one amorphous bed that someone has created from assorted quilts and blankets. But one of them has made his way into my bed. The guest room is empty, but it’s clear from the bags tossed up on the bed that this is where Aunt Olivia plans to spend the night.

  I fold myself into the love seat in the living room and pull a throw over me. It’s uncomfortable, but I hardly notice. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted.

  I drift off to sleep thinking, Andrew, and wonder at how easily his first name plays on my lips now.

  Andrew

  I adjust the headphones snugly over my ears, drop the cord down my shirt, then fish it out the bottom and plug it into my iPod.

  I don’t want to sleep; I want to dance.

  Chapter 14

  Andrew

  I promised Maya I’d pick up Kiki at nine, so here I am.

  “Wow, you look like you’ve been run over by a dump truck.”

  I smile tiredly at Maya. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a dump truck.”

  She squints a little and tilts her head. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Drinking?” I laugh. “No. I, um . . .” I hesitate. I chaperoned a band dance, for Pete’s sake, but I’m tired and sore from twirling that silly rifle in the parking lot well after the lights went out last night. I learned the double toss, then the triple, then had almost mastered the quad before we moved to the horizontal toss. It was tricky and pretty stupid in the dark, but the moonlight and the whiteness of the rifle made it doable. And there was something very intimate about being alone with Robert in the dark, his hands on mine, his body close. We didn’t talk about anything important. We just played with the rifle and laughed. God, what a beautiful sound, his laugh.

  But somehow, telling Maya that I had some kind of Zen experience in a parking lot with one of my students until the wee hours of the morning would be even stupider than being in that parking lot in the first place. I could just tell her about the dance. That would be good enough to explain the tired muscles on my out-of-shape body, but I am feeling some serious warm fuzzies at the moment, and I want to share them, even if it means telling a slightly embellished version of my night. So I settle on a half-truth. “I went dancing last night.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Dancing? Like, with a guy?”

  “Maybe.” I know I’m being coy, but frankly, I feel coy today.

  “Really? So . . . is this guy someone special?”

  “Special?” I realize I’m echoing her words and make a point to stop. “Yeah. I’d have to say he’s special. Very special, in fact. But special for me? I don’t know. We’re just friends.”

  She eyes me for a moment, a knowing look, and a slow smile makes its way across her face and lights up her eyes. “You’re in love!”

  Maya always did know me, better than I know myself.

  “Just friends,” I insist, but I’m not so sure anymore. All we did was twirl that rifle and toss it in the air more times than I can count, but despite how tired I am, I feel more alive today than I have in years, maybe ever.

  “Kiki’s still eating breakfast. Doug’s here. Want to come in and have some coffee?”

  Kiki’s face lights up when she sees me. She holds out a soggy Cheerio, and I bend down so she can put it in my mouth. Then I give her a kiss on her milky lips. “How’s my best girl this morning?”

  “Cheewios!”

  “I know,” I say, but decline when she offers me another one.

  Maya hands me a cup, then pours some coffee as I sit down. Doug is at the stove whipping up something that smells like onions. He looks comfortable there, and I can’t help thinking that he and Maya will make a nice couple, and that he’ll be a good stepdad to Kiki. Maya swats him on the butt as she returns the carafe to the coffeemaker.

  He looks over his shoulder at me. “I’m making breakfast. You interested?”

  “Sure. Smells good.”

  “Maya tells me you applied for the administrator training program. Have you heard anything yet?”

  “Not yet. I just had an interview Monday. I’m hoping to hear something this week.”

  “So the kids might be calling you Principal McNelis soon?”

  I laugh. “Hardly.”

  Maya hands me a carton of half-and-half, a sugar bowl, and a spoon. I give her a wink.

  “It’s a two-year program. I intern in the last semester. They’ll get me a sub, and I’ll get to play administrator for a number of days. Then I’ll start applying for positions. But from what I hear, though, the district tries to rough you up a bit before they’ll offer you anything. Lots of interviews, lots of rejections. You just gotta be patient and keep at it. So, I figure it’ll be at least four more years before I even make assistant principal.”

  “Ouch.”

  Doug’s an engineer. He’s only a few years older than I am, but he earns three times as much. That’s okay. It means security for Maya and a chance for her to stay home with Kiki if she wants to after they marry, if they marry.

  “Not that bad,” I say. “I really love working with the kids. Every day’s a new challenge. Each year’s a new challenge. You never know for sure what you’re going to be teaching or what kind of kids you’re going to get. I hear it keeps you young. If the pay weren’t so bad, I might be happy to stay a teacher the rest of my life.”

  Maya looks a little uneasy. She knows about my financial struggles, but she also knows I wouldn’t have it any other way. I manage. I’m happy. That should be enough for anyone.

  “Drew met a guy,” Maya says.

  “Oh-oh-oh,” I sputter. “Thanks for keeping my secrets.”

  “You didn’t say it was a secret,” she says sweetly.

  “Yeah?” Doug says. “Where’d you meet him? School?”

  “He’s just a friend,” I say, evading the last question.

  “They went daaancing last night,” Maya singsongs.

  Doug moves the pan from the stove to the table, far enough away from Kiki so she can’t reach out and burn her little fingers. Good move, Doug.

  “Could he keep up?”

  “You know, I find it disturbing that you know so much about me.”

  He hands me a plate and grins. “You’re a legend.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Just pillow talk.”

  “Might I suggest you get some new pillows or this little one here�
�—I muss Kiki’s hair—“is going to grow up an only child.”

  Maya blushes, but Doug doesn’t skip a beat. “We do all right.”

  I bet. I already know Doug spends the night when Kiki is with me. Although, I’m pretty sure he spent the night last night, too, judging from his casual dress this morning—barefoot, TAMU sweatpants and a Fruit of the Loom undershirt—but I can hardly blame them since I was the one who changed my plans at the last minute. Maya’s flexible like that; we both are. Anyway, Kiki’s only two, and if it makes Maya happy, it makes me happy.

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I’d texted Robert before I even got out of bed this morning: Can’t move. Every muscle in my body hurts. Blame you.

  He must have slept in. I take out my phone and check the message.

  Serves you right, old man.

  I can still fail you.

  Ha, ha. You know I’m kidding, Andrew! (No Mr. Mac. Did you see that? Huh?)

  I saw ;)

  When I look up again, Maya and Doug are exchanging an amused look.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re smiling,” Maya says. “Your new guy?” I take a piece of bacon and pretend I didn’t hear the question.

  Robert

  “It smells like smoke in here,” I say to Aunt Whitney as I pour a glass of milk.

  She takes the carton from me, checks the level, and returns it to the refrigerator. “You sleep okay?”

  “Yeah,” I answer. “Pretty good.” Just not nearly long enough. The rug rats were up early.

  I pull my left arm behind my head, then my right, trying to work out some of the kinks. Andrew isn’t the only one with sore muscles this morning. But every ache reminds me of last night, and I savor every twinge.

  “Sorry I had to put the kids in your room,” she says as she adds milk to her shopping list. “There really wasn’t any other place. This house is pretty small.”

  She means it as a mere observation, I’m pretty sure, but the implication from years of just such comments still seeps through. The former-Westfall women live in large homes, homes that befit their status as physician-gods (Aunt Whitney, neurology; Aunt Olivia, otolaryngology, a fancy word for the field of ear, nose, and throat medicine). Ours is a hovel and clearly beneath their baby brother. I shake off the bad vibes and try to give her the benefit of the doubt.