Obscura Burning

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Obscura Burning Page 6

by van Rooyen, Suzanne

“How you doing, Daniel?” She ignores me completely.

  “Pretty good actually. Getting stronger every day.”

  “Good for you, kiddo. Can I help with anything?” Not even the faintest whiff of gin on her breath. The night of the fire she was passed out drunk at a bar in Farmington. No one could get hold of her until the next day. I guess losing your daughter is as good a reason as any to sober up.

  Shira wouldn’t believe me if I told her that her mom could actually go a day without marinating herself in alcohol.

  “We’re hunting for a sombrero. Been all over town, but no luck. Right, Kyle?” Danny looks up at me and Shira’s mom finally makes eye contact. But her gaze is searing, and I know my face is turning beet red.

  I hang back as Danny negotiates the route between rails of traditional Navajo dress, woolen rugs fresh off the reservation, turquoise beaded jewelry, pottery, and other artworks. There’s a gaggle of sunburned tourists oohing and ahhing over the various wares, fingering feathers and tinkling wind chimes. How many in the shop are ones that Shira made?

  There’s a TV on in the corner, tuned to CNN. The sound’s off, and the picture shudders as the anchorman mouths words I can’t decipher. The image holds for a moment or two as a crystal-clear photograph of the visiting planet fills the screen. The scrolling along the bottom reads Astronomers believe Obscura might be affecting time itself. My veins wither beneath my skin as the screen crackles with snow.

  Danny emerges moments later with a rainbow-colored straw sombrero.

  “That the best they’ve got?” I ask, and Shira’s mom purses her lips.

  “I think it’s cool,” Danny says.

  I crouch down so he can put it on my head. It’s a little big and I feel like an idiot, but Danny’s smiling, and that’s all that matters.

  “How much is it?” Danny reaches for his wallet.

  “Nah, have it on the house.” Shira’s mom smiles at him and returns to the register.

  We’re almost out the door when I turn back, heart hammering against my fractured ribs, and walk right up to the counter.

  “Mrs. Nez.” There’s tumbleweed in my throat. “I’m really sorry about what happened. Shira didn’t deserve that. There isn’t a day that goes by…” My gaze slips from her glistening eyes to the countertop. The words are choking me. “We’re going to hold a memorial for Shira after the street dance. I just wanted to let you know. We’re really sorry. I’m really sorry about everything.” Part of me wants to tell her that actually, it was Danny who died, me who got burned to a crisp, and that Shira is doing just fine.

  I leave in a hurry without looking back.

  * * *

  “What’d you say to Shira’s mom?” Danny asks as I put the truck in reverse.

  “Told her we were holding a memorial.”

  “Really? What did she say?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t hang around. That woman scares me.” I pull out, and there’s an ominous crunch of metal.

  “Fuck, Kyle. You hit someone.” Danny’s hanging out the window. “Hey, you OK?”

  A familiar voice spits curses at us. I groan.

  “You gonna go sort it out or what?” Danny punches my shoulder.

  Of all the people I could’ve hit, I ram into Mya. Her bumper’s toast, and her right headlight is busted.

  “I’m really sorry.” I slam my hands into my denim pockets, so sick of saying those words.

  Mya fumes, her face twisted up in rage. She looks about ready to tear my eyes out.

  “You’ll pay for this.”

  I want to say it’s her fault for driving around in some ridiculous paper-thin European car, but I smile instead. “Do you like my sombrero?”

  She doesn’t respond. A vein thumps beneath the skin at her temple, and her mouth hangs open a little.

  “See you at the dance, Mya.” I tip my hat at her and get back in the truck. I pull forward, reverse at an angle and manage to scrape past her, only just missing a side mirror.

  She’s raging at me, but I ignore her and drive out of the lot grinning.

  “Qué demonios, Kyle?” Danny gawks at me. “Why you being a dick?”

  “She’s a prissy little cow.” And does it even matter when I’ll wake up tomorrow in a different world?

  “Sometimes it’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore.” He shakes his head. “You never used to be such a jerk.”

  “She knows where to find me. I’ll pay for the damages.”

  We drive in silence for a while, chewing dust that blows in through the window, squinting out over the parched landscape. Again, I consider telling Danny about my double life, but the words get snarled up in my throat. There’s tension between us, like Danny’s waiting for something from me; the perfect moment to start talking.

  “So…” Danny starts, and my moment’s lost. “A termite walks into a bar and says, hey, where’s the bar tender?”

  * * *

  Hector bids me adios, leaving me outside the kitchen with several large garbage bags. A cool breeze blows hair across my face. I stink of cheese and beans.

  Footsteps crunch across the gravel parking lot, down the narrow path that runs around the back. I dismiss whoever’s there as some hungry passerby. I’m hauling bags, letting them crash into the Dumpster. One splits its seam and I’m showered in leftover burrito.

  “This him?” a guy asks. In the dark I can’t see his face, and I don’t recognize his voice. There are four guys standing in a semicircle around me. They don’t look friendly and my palms start sweating.

  “Yeah, that’s the pendejo who hit my car.” Mya’s standing in the shadow. I can only just make out the figure down the path, but it’s her voice all right.

  “Hey, I said I was sorry. I’ll pay for the damages.” I raise my hands. Four against one isn’t exactly fair.

  “Yeah, you’ll pay for sure.”

  They rush me and I manage to get in a few blows. I recognize lanky Nicholas from the basketball courts right before he punches me in the mouth.

  If I didn’t have a cracked rib, I’d have lasted longer. It doesn’t take long before they overwhelm me. I’m down on the ground trying to shield my left side, dark faces glowering at me.

  “That’s enough, Benny. Kill him and who’s gonna pay?”

  I should’ve known her brother wouldn’t be dead in this life. Through a swollen eye, I see Mya walk over, hips wiggling side to side. I sure as hell am not going to pay now.

  “Mula,” she says by way of final insult, and spits, just missing my face in the dark.

  They saunter away, laughing. I roll onto my back, trying to take short, shallow breaths, but the pain in my chest is excruciating. Close my eyes, fall asleep, wake up, and the pain’ll be gone, at least for a while.

  Chapter Seven

  Danny’s dead

  Sunlight lances my eyes. My neck is cricked, and the comic I was drawing is stained a dark burgundy. It’s ruined, although the stain adds color to the black-and-white flames in the frame. I don’t remember drawing it.

  That’s the weirdest part. When I shift between realities, the one I’m not in seems to carry on as if I’m still in it. Creeps me out thinking about who’s acting like me in my place. Some bizarre doppelgänger?

  Feels like I got beaten up by four guys even though I’m in a different reality. There’s a sticky trail of blood from my nose across my lips and chin.

  Sunday, July 1.

  I’ve lost en entire day. I scribble the date and time on a sticky note. The postcard Shira gave me is propped up next to the terrarium, waiting for a more permanent location. Problem is deciding which way to stick it. Poem or picture side up?

  A knock on my bedroom door.

  “Kyle, sweetheart? It’s almost noon.” The door cracks open and Mom walks in, decked out in her church clothes. At least she doesn’t wake me up for the services anymore. Definitely not in the mood for more doomsday rhetoric, and speeches about sin and repentance.

  “Oh my Lord, what happened?” S
he rushes over, fussing over my face.

  “Nothing, Mom. Just a nosebleed.”

  “Let me check.” She goes into nurse mode, pinching my septum and feeling my eye sockets. Her touch is gentler on the left where the scars have made pockets of warped flesh under my eye.

  “Told you.”

  She disappears into the bathroom and returns with a cold, wet cloth and presses it to my face.

  “How are you doing?” Mom sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes etched with concern as I dab at the scabs on my face. Her gaze drifts to the terrarium where my vinegaroons are enjoying their breakfast, and she shudders. She never liked my pets.

  “I’m coping.”

  Mom seems about to ask something else, but she catches her bottom lip between her teeth. She’s sporting more gray hair now, and deeper lines around her eyes and mouth.

  “I met a girl,” I say. As soon as the words leave my lips, I want to kick myself.

  Delight registers on her face. “Are we going to meet this girl?”

  “Maybe. I’m going with her to the dance.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Kyle.” She kisses my forehead. “Get cleaned up, you smell like cheese.” Her nose wrinkles. “I’ve got the day off so I made pancakes.” Mom pretty much skips out of my room and down the stairs. I lean out the door, listening. She’s telling Dad I met a girl.

  Groaning, I haul myself into the shower. The smell of burrito is still stuck in my nostrils. My hair is greasy from a night at Black Paw, but that shouldn’t be part of this reality… The room tilts on its axis and I’m falling.

  Dust and blood in my mouth. Early morning sunlight streaming through the stunted mesquite that hangs over the Dumpsters outside Black Paw.

  Another reality shift. They never used to happen if I was awake. Something’s changing.

  I stagger to my feet and head back into the restaurant, fumbling with the keys. Coughing up blood and sand, I rinse and spit several times. There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t hurt. The TV in the corner, usually tuned to ESPN so Hector can watch the game at work, shuffles through channels until it settles on a news broadcast.

  Saturday, June 30. My lost day found.

  I turn up the volume.

  “The planet many are calling Obscura is set to reach its perigee around the Fourth of July. Given the hysteria with which some doomsday groups have responded to the appearance of this planet, scientists are hesitant to speculate on what the planet being at its closest point to Earth could mean for us over the holiday. Interference from the mysterious visitor has so far been limited to transmission interruptions, although some claim Obscura is having an effect on our climate, gravitational field, and even on our perception of time itself. Despite these anomalies, it seems extremely unlikely at this stage that Obscura will cause an extinction level event on Earth. We cross now to Professor Langley at the California Institute of Technology…”

  The picture shudders, dissolving into snowy static, and I’m sucked backward.

  My fork clatters to the floor, splattering my sneakers with strawberry jam.

  “You’re in your own world today,” Mom says, stirring her coffee.

  Wet hair on the back of my neck, and clean clothes. I’m also more than halfway through a plate of pancakes and don’t remember any of it. Dad eyes me over the top of the newspaper, but says nothing.

  I retrieve my fork and mop up the mess with my napkin. My hands are shaking. It’s Sunday again.

  “Mom, would you take me out to Garry’s today?”

  “Again, why?” Mom gives Dad a worried look. Again?

  “Off to see that Indian girl?” Dad asks, also still in church clothes. At least they’re doing something together, unlike those otherworld parents who have avoidance down to an art.

  “She’s only half Navajo, and why does that matter?” Why did Mom say again? I’m starting to feel a little cheated by this world hopping.

  Dad harrumphs and returns to his newspaper.

  “Why do you need to go to Garry’s, Kyle?”

  “To buy a sombrero for the dance.”

  Mom and Dad both give me strange looks. Mom smiles, but it’s tight and uncomfortable on her face.

  “We went yesterday, sweetheart.”

  “What?” I don’t remember. I really am losing it.

  “Listen, Kyle, I don’t want you running around with that girl anymore,” Dad says from behind the paper.

  “Running around?”

  “We’re concerned she might be a bad influence.” Mom lays her hand on my arm.

  I pull away. “A bad influence? Are you serious?”

  “We know you were drinking that night.” Dad crumples the paper.

  “Yeah, and I’m the one who chose to drink a whole bottle of tequila. Shira didn’t force it down my throat.”

  “Kyle, please. We’re just looking out for you.” Mom tries to take my hand, but I pull away.

  “Your mother and I think it’s time you moved on, made some new friends. Have you even thought about what you’re going to do about your diploma?”

  “Moved on?” Anger and hurt are all tangled up, forming one giant knot in my belly. My heart’s jackhammering. I’m shifting between realities, between two dead friends, and my dad’s concerned about whether I’ll graduate from high school?

  “We just think it might be best for you to consider having new people in your life.”

  “Daniel was your friend. We know that. But after the memorial, we’re hoping you’ll find some closure and move on with your life. That’s all.” Dad slurps his coffee.

  “Who’s this new girl you’re taking to the dance then?” Mom asks, fidgeting with her napkin.

  Closure. The word reverberates in my head. Only way I’ll get that is when I can remember what happened that night. Maybe it wasn’t even me who started the fire.

  “Danny was more than just a friend, Dad. And Shira’s the sweetest, kindest girl I’ve ever met. Just because her mother’s an alcoholic doesn’t mean she deserves to be judged. What do you think people say about me then?”

  “You watch your mouth, young man.” Dad points a finger at me, his cheeks bulging. I’m goading him, and I don’t care. Above Dad’s head, Jesus glares at me with judgmental eyes from his hunk of wood. Repent, sinner.

  “Kyle, we never said—”

  “No, you don’t even know them. You never liked Daniel and you’ve never really met Shira. You have no idea what my life is like, and now you tell me I should move on?” My voice rises in pitch and volume.

  “You want the truth? No, we never liked Daniel and his wetback parents—”

  “They’re Nicaraguan, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Language, Kyle.” Mom corrects me, but not Dad.

  Dad doesn’t even hear me, just continues. “We knew he’d be a corrupting influence. His father—”

  “Michael, please.” My mom’s words are met with a glare.

  “No, Beth, he needs to hear this. The sooner he realizes what’s good for him, the better.”

  “I just think…”

  They start arguing across the table about me and my life’s trajectory, as if I don’t exist. Right now, I don’t want to exist.

  The walls are closing in on me and a scream’s tearing up my throat.

  “You know what?” I stand up, thumping my fists on the table, sending cutlery clattering to the floor. “I’m trying to deal with all this the best I can. The last thing I need is you two trying to plan my life for me. I’m never going to find a girl to marry.”

  “Kyle, of course—”

  “No, Mom. I’ll never find a wife. And I’ll never give you grandchildren.”

  “And why’s that?” Dad asks.

  “Because I’m gay, goddammit.”

  Mom gasps and presses her hands to her face, eyes widening with dismay.

  “No you’re not, son,” my dad says.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “See, this is exactly the type of thing I was afraid of. That Dani
el…”

  “That Daniel was my boyfriend.”

  “What?” Dad’s turning an alarming shade of purple; his hands clench into fists.

  “Your ex-boss’s son? We’d been sleeping together for a year already.”

  Dad hasn’t hit me in years, but I watch those twitching fists and just can’t stop provoking him. “No, no…” My dad’s shaking his head.

  “Maybe it’s time you got used to the fact that your son likes fucking boys.” I anticipated my dad’s fist, not my mom’s hand across my face. She catches me on the left. I can’t really feel the sting, but it still hurts. Catastrophically.

  With tears in my eyes, I escape the stifling confines of the kitchen, slamming the screen door behind me.

  I follow my feet to Shira’s. By the time I get there, I’m about ready to burst. Of all the ways I could’ve broken the news to my folks, that’s just about the worst. But it’s their fault for thinking they have a say in who I love.

  Shira’s in the shed, sanding cylinders of wood for a new set of chimes. She’s listening to some Navajo band, a mix of Native drums with lyrics about modern politics. She’s singing along to the Native part, mouthing syllables that mean nothing to me.

  “Shira!”

  “Hey, Kyle.” She spins around on her chair. “What’s wrong?” Shira dashes across the sand, tries to catch me as I collapse to my knees. Maybe I’m having a heart attack. It feels like there’s a corkscrew going right through my chest. I gulp down air and it’s just not enough. As the music rushes toward a frenetic climax, I’m pretty sure I’m going to explode.

  “Calm down, please.” She smooths the hair off my face with her small hands, wraps an arm around my shoulder, and starts rocking me back and forth. Gradually the pain subsides, and the track changes to something gentler. I can breathe normally again. Shira keeps rocking me, kissing my hair. I don’t deserve this from her. In that other life, I’m glad she’s the one who’s dead.

  Taking deep breaths, I try not to cry, squeezing my eyes shut.

  “So…” Shira says. “When is a bus not a bus?” She says it imitating Danny, drawling out the words.

 

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