by Ginger Scott
How We Deal With Gravity
a novel
by ginger scott
Text copyright © 2014 Ginger Scott (Ginger Eiden)
Smashwords Edition
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Ginger Scott
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For every parent of a child with autism.
Contents:
Prologue
Chapter 1: Home Again
Chapter 2: People Don’t Change
Chapter 3: Speaking Max
Chapter 4: Familiar
Chapter 5: Calluses
Chapter 6: The Sound of That
Chapter 7: And Then There Were Four
Chapter 8: Just Another Day at the Office
Chapter 9: The New Kid
Chapter 10: Just Dinner
Chapter 11: Tomorrow
Chapter 12: Learning How to Do This
Chapter 13: Boxes
Chapter 14: Morning
Chapter 15: Fitting In
Chapter 16: Popular
Chapter 17: Jitters
Chapter 18: Right at Home
Chapter 19: Promises
Chapter 20: Paperweight
Chapter 21: Dinner for Four
Chapter 22: The Road
Chapter 23: A Good Life
Chapter 24: Tonight, At Dusty’s
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Avery
The looks on their faces—that’s the worst part.
Nobody tries to help. They never do. They just rush by with their own children, hiding their eyes so they don’t see the woman causing the scene with her kid.
They scoff at me, judge me. They make grand assumptions.
“She needs to learn how to control her son,” I hear them whisper.
Or, “I bet she lets him walk all over her. It’s her own fault, really.”
Sometimes, I actually feel ashamed. I mouth apologies, as best I can, and I cry. Sometimes…I cry.
Then there are other times—the ones where I grit my teeth, and I stare back into their eyes, with laser-like precision. I bite my tongue, fight against my grain, wanting to shove them, swear at them—make them feel small.
But most of the time, I just count. I count and I pray—not that I’ve stepped foot inside a church once in my life, but I pray anyway, because if someone’s going to be heard, Lord, it has to be me.
I’ve made it all the way into the thousands before the counting stops. I’ve had security step in, try to calm the situation. I’ve broken displays in the grocery store, set off car alarms in parking lots, and toppled tables in restaurants.
That’s part of the reason I don’t go out much. It just…well…it just isn’t easy. Hell, it’s far from easy. It’s barely possible. And some would argue it isn’t.
But it’s only Max and me in this world—and sometimes, he and I have to conquer its cruelty together.
His teeth are locked on my arm. I felt the skin break minutes ago, and I know when I finally pull his mouth away, there will be blood.
Four hundred seven. Four hundred eight. Four hundred nine.
I’m clutching Max to my body, our grocery bags splayed around us near the store’s entrance. I keep staring at the lone red apple that rolled furthest away. Even the damn produce is abandoning me—hiding.
Four hundred sixteen. Four hundred seventeen.
I shut my eyes, tired of the furrowed brows and the sneers from the old ladies pulling out their carts. If I don’t see them, they won’t exist. I won’t hear them. There’s no way I could over the shrilling scream Max has kept up for at least 15 minutes straight. His body relaxed in my arms a few minutes ago. But I made the mistake of thinking it was over—that we were done. I tried to walk him to the car, leaving the groceries where they lay. And that’s when he got me with his teeth.
My arms are so tired. When Max is like this, it’s like he’s possessed with super strength, and it takes all I have in me to keep his arms down, to keep him from hurting himself. This little boy, barely five—I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s ten, fifteen or…
Sometimes I can send my dad out for these errands. But he almost always gets something wrong, coming home with strawberry pastries instead of cherry. Getting something wrong is almost worse. But today? Today, I don’t know. I think I’d pick the pastry meltdown.
I had to park far. Not in our spot. He was edgy then, shuffling his feet more than normal, and bouncing on his toes. Then the bread aisle was blocked because we were later than normal, and the deliveryman was stocking the shelves. We always go down the bread aisle first.
Always.
But today we couldn’t. And somehow, through a miracle, Max accepted that. But his feet began moving faster, and his arms began swinging more, his hands reaching to almost touch everything, careful to come within a millimeter without actually pressing his skin to anything foreign.
We gathered our small list into the basket. We paid. We bagged the groceries. And we were almost out the door.
Almost.
I felt the handle slipping. Like slow motion, I saw it all play out in my mind before it really happened. The bag tore open, and the apples—Max’s apples—all rolled onto the ground—the dirty ground. And Max had met his match.
“What a spoiled brat!” the woman says as she shoves her plastic purse in the top basket of her shopping cart.
All I can do is smile, and meekly, at that. “I’m sorry.” That’s what I’m saying with that smile. That I’m sorry my son has autism, and that I don’t know how to hide it from you.
Max’s grip is loosening even more, and my lungs finally fill up.
I look back at the apple.
Four hundred sixty-one. Four hundred sixty-two.
Today, I will make it home before dark, but without apples. I can’t do this again…not today. I’ll send my dad for the apples tomorrow. And I’ll give him pictures so he gets it right.
But I’ve got nothing left. Today is one of those sometimes. The ones when I cry.
Chapter 1: Home Again
Mason
I can’t believe I’m back here, in this shit hole! At least I’m not staying with my mom. She’s been shacking up with a new guy, some rich asshole she met at the big car auction that comes to town.
He’s hung around longer than most. I think it’s been a few months, not that I pay attention to the pointless stories she tells me over the phone.
She hasn’t given up the apartment, which is good. She did that the last time she met the guy that was going to be the one. She had to move all our crap into storage and back out again a month later. She lost the two-bedroom, too. Just one more reason to be glad I’m not staying with her while I figure things out—I hate sleeping on the fucking couch.
Calling Ray Abbot was really my only option when the label dropped the
band. Ray’s taken me in most of my life. He taught me my first chord and gave me my first Gibson for my sixteenth birthday. He’s the reason I love rock & roll and the blues. Ray put me—scared shitless—on a stage in front of a mic and a drunk-ass crowd of locals when I was ten, maybe eleven. Changed my life.
I still remember climbing up to sit on the stools in the back of his bar after school while my mom finished her shift. When I called, Ray told me she quit again after she started dating the new guy. But her locker’s still there, along with all her shirts and her apron. He even made a joke about how he doesn’t peel off the “Barb” sticker from her nametag anymore because he knows he’ll just be printing a new one out in a few months.
Thank God for Ray Abbot. I swear, with the amount of times Barb Street walked off the job during a shift, if it weren’t for that man and his forgiving nature, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have had food on my plate when I was a kid.
I didn’t tell my mom I was coming home. She would baby me, tell me it was the band’s fault, and that I needed to find someone new. I’ve been with the guys for years, and she still doesn’t know their names. I’ll call her in a few days, when I have something to say—when I can tell her I’m hitting the road again and getting the hell out of Arizona.
Ray’s bar looks exactly the same. You would never believe the talent that’s passed through this joint by looking at it from the gravel parking lot out front. The metal sign that reads Dusty’s is banged up and crooked, and the spotlight that shines on the marquee is dim. I don’t even know why Ray bothers to put up the names and show times—there’s no way a car passing by out here in the desert would be able to read it. Hell, I’m standing seven feet out, and I can’t make out a goddamned word!
The people come anyway. Ray could post on that sign out front that the world was ending, and he’d still have a full house by 8 p.m. on a Friday. It’s because the music is that good, and you can count on it. It’s simple—if you’re a hack, Ray won’t put you on.
There’s a new band jamming tonight. I scope them out when I walk in and slide through the crowd lining the tables in the back. They’re pretty tight. A country band…a little bluegrass maybe? I like their sound.
“Well, are you just going to stand there, numbnuts?” I hear the gruff voice say from behind me. Ray bumps into my arm with his elbow, hard enough to knock me off balance.
“Hey, old man, just cuz my ma quit, don’t go thinking I’m picking up her shifts. You can bus your own tables,” I joke back, following him into the kitchen.
Ray dumps the bin of dirty glasses into the sink, and nods to a couple of the guys working in the back before drying off his hands on the towel tossed over his shoulder. He settles his gaze on me with a tough-guy sigh, but I know he’s just giving me shit. He lets it go on for a couple of seconds before he starts laughing and pulling me in for a hug.
“Damn, Mason. How long’s it been?” he asks.
“Five years, Ray. Five years,” I say, both sad that I haven’t come to visit, and dejected that I’m right back where I started.
“Wow, man. That long, huh?” Ray says, nudging me to follow him to the back office. Just like the rest of the bar, Ray’s office looks like time stood still. The layer of dust on all of the framed photos is thick, and I zero in on the one of him with me right away.
Five years—five years ago I took a picture with Ray on that stage, celebrating my big break. Some fuckin’ break. The boys and me have played nothing but shit-small towns and tiny venues without as much as a month or two off in between, and I don’t even have an album to show for it—at least, nothing anyone’s playing.
“So, label bailed, huh?” Ray says, kicking his feet up onto his desk and gesturing for me to take a seat on the old sofa.
“Yeah, it was time, though. They weren’t doing anything for us,” I say, falling deep into the worn cushions.
“Hmmmm,” Ray says, chewing at the inside of his cheek, and twisting at the end of his graying mustache.
“Oh, come on, Ray…you know we’re good. You know it!” I start to protest, leaning forward, ready to stand on my feet. Fuck this, I didn’t come here to get a lecture. I called Ray because I thought he would understand. He’s the one who pushed me to fight for this, and he’s half the reason I want it so damned bad. If he’s going to tell me I can’t make it now…
“Sit your ass down, hot head,” he halts me. I roll my eyes at him, but I sit back, giving him the respect he deserves. However, I’m not opposed to walking right out of here and slamming his door in his face if he starts to get high and mighty.
Ray leans forward and reaches into his desk drawer, digging through piles of notebooks and papers before finally coming up with a giant envelop full of clippings. He unfolds the top and dumps six or seven newspaper articles on his desk, spreading them out like a winning poker hand. I keep my eyes on him the entire time—I don’t dare look down at the papers, because I know what they are, and I hate that he’s read them.
“Let’s just take a look, shall we?” he says, pulling his glasses from his front pocket just to be melodramatic. This is going to be way more painful than I thought. I should have known—Ray doesn’t lecture. He doesn’t need to. He can put you in your place in an instant just by pulling at the threads of your skeletons and weaknesses.
“This one’s from two months ago. Says here Mason Street and his band left a crowd of nearly 3,000 ticket holders waiting until almost 11 p.m. before finally taking the stage in Oklahoma City,” Ray says, flicking his eyes to mine for a brief second, just long enough to burn in his disappointment. “Oh, wait…there’s more. It goes on to say that when the band finally took the stage, they only made it through one song before the drummer passed out. And then…wow, really? And then Street broke his guitar over his knee and punched his bass player, starting a brawl that police had to break up.”
“Yeah, yeah…I get it,” I say, but Ray’s quick to cut me off.
“No, Mason. I don’t think you do. Let’s take a look at this one,” he says, unfolding the one that’s going to hurt to hear. I’m not going to get out of here without letting him say his piece—so I sit back again and get comfortable. I still won’t look at him, though, so instead I stare at the wall of photos.
“The Mason Street Band was arrested for disorderly conduct after trashing—trashing!—a Reno hotel suite. Damage was estimated at $250,000 and included two windows,” Ray pulls his glasses off and rubs at his forehead. He doesn’t need to finish. “Damn it, Mason. You really don’t know why the label dropped you? You and those…those…those clowns that you call a band. Jesus, boy! It’s a good thing you’ve come home, but I don’t know—”
I turn to him now. If he’s about to say what I think he’s going to say, I want to look into his eyes while he crushes me. “What, Ray? What don’t you know?” I ask, throwing my shoulders up in defeat.
Ray’s slow to respond, spending his time folding up the sad scrapbook he’s kept on me. The worst part…I don’t think there’s a positive article in the mix, and I wouldn’t know where the hell to find one. He slides the folder back into his drawer and leans forward on his elbows, cracking his knuckles while he studies me.
“Kid, you sure made a mess of things. You’re the most talented thing I’ve ever put up on that stage. But your goddamned head is thick, you know that?” he says, mouth tight, and showing only half a smile. “I don’t know if you can fix this, that’s all. But we’ll try, okay? We’ll sure try.”
Ray stands up and walks over to reach for my hand to pull me up to my feet. He pats my back as he guides me back out to the bar. I just shake my head, because I really don’t have any answers. I get how Ray sees things, but he also doesn’t understand what it was like to play, night after night, in some of those joints. Every month there was promise of a bigger ticket, of coming in for an album, recording something new. But then another month would pass, and nothing. The guys quit believing about a year ago, and I just couldn’t keep it going anymore. I quit wri
ting, too.
“Hey, Ray,” called the waitress from behind the bar, “we’re getting hammered out here already. What are we doing about Barb?”
“Avery’s coming in early. She’ll be here in a few,” Ray says back.
I can’t help but chuckle at the thought of Avery working the bar. Ray’s daughter has always been mousy. We all called her Birdie when we were younger, because when she talked it sounded like chirping.
“Avery actually works here?” I half laugh to Ray as I join him behind the bar. Out of instinct, I start grabbing glasses and drying them. I did a lot of dishes at Dusty’s before I hit the road, and if Ray’s going to put me up for the next few weeks, the least I can do is help out until Birdie shows up.
“Yeah, she works the night shifts. She’s going to school, too. Girl works her ass off,” Ray says, either not picking up on the humor I see about Avery in a bar, or just ignoring it. “Hey, will you take these to the back and bring in the clean ones?” Ray asks, handing me a bin full of dirty glasses.
“Sure,” I say, lugging them with me to the back. Sal and Manny are working the kitchen today, so I spend a few minutes with them. Those two have been working here almost as long as my mom has, and they’re like uncles to me. Hell, Sal taught me how to throw a punch when I was getting picked on in fifth grade. And Manny taught me how to take one in high school. My mom was pissed when he punched me in the face, but when she found out it was because I was dating his daughter, she never brought it up again.
Ray yells through the swinging door. “Hey, Mason! Avery’s here, so why don’t you take my keys on over to the house and get settled?”
“Ah right, boys. I’ll catch ya later. I’m going to see if I can talk the old man into letting me play a night or two,” I wink. I dry my hands, and then shake theirs before heading back into the busy bar, where the crowd is starting to build. Ray’s manning the tap; it’s at least two-people deep, and most of the tables are full. I recognize a lot of the familiar faces, but there’s always a batch of new ones, too—tourists and college kids looking to party.