by K. M. Walton
In retrospect, it was the beginning of the end.
Vance
Two years ago
That teacher lady Dad slept with last year never was pregnant. Dad told me one night when he had a decent load on. The whole thing was a false alarm. When I lay in bed in the dark, I got bummed out that my mother died for nothing. I mean, her car crash was ruled an accident, but I knew better. The last thing I’d heard her scream at my dad was “I can’t take this anymore, Steve. I want out!” Then our back door slammed, and the tires of her car squealed down the street.
I think she turned that steering wheel on purpose. She knew her car would crash into the tree. I was pretty sure my dad and my brother both thought the same thing. We never talked about shit like that though, so I guess I’ll never know for sure if I was the only one.
I dropped my backpack on the floor of my dad’s office and put on my apron. He was behind the bar taking inventory. “Yo!” I shouted to him from the doorway.
He looked up from the clipboard and tossed his head back in a silent hello. I grabbed the dolly and got to work loading it with cases of beer. As I finished stocking one of the coolers and turned to go load up again, I saw the half-empty glass sitting next to the cash register. My father’s back was to me, so I leaned in and took a sniff. Straight vodka. “Hitting it hard today, huh?”
“How about you mind your own damn business! I had a headache,” Dad barked. He never talked to me like that. What was with his crap moods lately? Maybe the hard alcohol was really messing him up. He swiped the glass off the counter, threw his head back, and drained the vodka. With a scrunched-up nose, he swallowed it down. “Haaaaaa.”
“I’ve got practice in twenty, so Oscar’s gonna have to finish this up.”
Dad crossed his arms and swayed a little to the left. “Your mom never understood me.” The sink underneath the bar was in the perfect place to steady him, and it did a great job of stopping him from falling completely over.
Okay. Wow. Random. I nodded because I agreed with him, but I had nothing to say, because what could I say to that?
“Remember that time we went to the zoo?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “We had a good day together. You guys got your faces painted, we went up in that zoo balloon thing, ate cheesesteaks by the elephants. Great day. Great family day.”
I did remember that trip to the zoo, all of it, but none of what he’d just said made me understand his “your mom never understood me” comment.
He grabbed the rag and wiped the bar. “I like being a dad. I-I do. It’s not easy for me, but I like it.”
He really wasn’t making any sense now.
“Your mom always wanted more from me. I never ever got it right, being her husband.”
Why was he drunk-mumbling his feelings to me?
“Mom got so pissed at me that night when we got home from the zoo. She didn’t like how I was talking to the cheesesteak girl. The cheesesteak girl! Who cares, right? She said I embarrassed her. I didn’t mean to do that.” He threw the rag into the sink. “Shit, I p-probably did. Live and learn.”
Dad dropped his head and walked back to his office. That was some heavy, hard-to-follow shit. I grabbed the bottle of vodka and poured myself a shot. The front door was locked so there was no chance anyone would come in. I downed the shot and followed it with a second. It wouldn’t be the first time I was buzzed at practice.
Oscar
I sit on the top row of bleachers and stare down at the transformed football field. This time of year, the lines change location and shape, and it becomes our lacrosse field.
My brother’s former paradise.
Unlike the softball field on the other side of school, this field is currently empty, as are the stands, so it’s easy to determine that my brother isn’t over here. It’s just me and some middle-aged lady with a long, blond ponytail jogging around the track surrounding the field. My eyes bob along with her every step, and when she runs by the stands, I drop my gaze. She appears to be roughly the same age as my father. The same father who’s about to leave his two sons alone in the world.
I abandon watching her and stare up at the sky, which is turning itself into a postcard right before my eyes. The sun dips lower, and the magnificence of the slathered reds, oranges, and yellows makes me lost in the view. This time of day used to be my mom’s favorite. Sometimes I’d join her in the backyard as she listened to reggae, sipping on a glass of wine, and we’d both gaze upward.
“So beautiful,” she’d whisper and take my hand.
I’d squeeze my little fingers around hers and nod. Mom and I didn’t need to talk. Even as a boy, I understood that she was appreciating the calm. I always hated when Vance would show up, bouncing around us asking a million questions about what we were doing, did I want to play tag, what was for dinner, what time was Dad getting home, and on and on until Mom would tire of answering him, kiss the top of my head, and say she was going to get dinner going. Vance always followed her inside, leaving me alone just as the sun disappeared. That absolute plunge into darkness was my favorite.
A few weeks before she died, I found her at dusk in the backyard, classic Marley coming from the outdoor speakers, wine in hand, and she quickly wiped her cheeks. I never asked her why she was crying. She took a sip and said, “Isn’t it fascinating that the daytime sky is such a bright, clear, stunning blue, and then it changes to this?” She pointed up. “It’s so completely different when the sun is going down. I love that.”
“Transformation,” I said.
“Exactly, Oscar.” She leaned back in the patio chair. “Why is it that something as complex and huge as the sky can change itself every single day, yet people struggle against it so hard?”
I knew she was talking about Dad, but he was a mystery to me so I had no answer for her. Maybe she thought that if Dad could change—be better—then everything would be better.
“Your father used to make me laugh when I first met him. Did I ever tell you that before? He was so different from the guy I’d just broken up with. That other guy was so serious, so boring. God, your dad was fun. I wish we could have fun again.” She drained her glass and then apologized for getting so personal.
“Mom, do you remember that trip we took to the zoo, the four of us? And Vance and I bugged you guys to let us get our faces painted?”
She smiled and looked away. She remembered.
“That was a great day. We could always go back there, to the zoo.”
“I love that photograph we had taken of the four of us. So cute. We were happy.” She goes to take a sip, but her glass is empty. “Your face was painted as a tiger, and Vance was what? A lizard?”
“A snake.” I wanted to get the snake painted on my face, but Vance shoved in front of me and got it first.
“I just love that photograph.”
Of course she did. It was the only framed family photo in our house. It sat prominently and alone on the corner table in our living room.
It seemed like she was holding back, that she had more to say, but she went inside to check on dinner, leaving me alone in the yard. The memory is depressing because I’ll never really know. The only conclusions I can draw right now are: (1) I fiercely miss my mother and having someone want to talk to me like that. (2) It’s time I get back to the hospice room. I’ve been out here for a while.
I walk across the street and am almost to the front door when I hear my name being called. It’s Vance. Smoke escapes his cracked window. Great, he’s getting high in the hospice parking lot.
His hand shoots out and motions me to his car. Before I make a move, I look around to see if anyone else is in the lot. It’s not that I think my brother is motioning for someone else; it’s that I’d rather ignore him than slink into his pot-filled car in front of watching eyes. I don’t like assumptions. I do my best not to make them, and I definitely don’t appreciate it when they’r
e made about me. My brother and father have flat-out mastered the art of assumption. It’s a trait I pride myself on not inheriting.
No one else is out here, so I walk to him. His window slides all the way down. Smoke billows out as if he himself were on fire.
“I thought you weren’t allowed to smoke weed anymore,” I say.
“Get in,” he commands.
I make a face.
“It’s serious. Get in.”
The fact that our father may have died suddenly registers in my brain. “Is it Dad?”
“I’m not telling you shit until you get in.” His window glides back up.
Control is important to my brother. Controlling me is even higher up on his list. I wish I could turn on my heel and leave him and his command to stew inside his smoke-filled car. In light of the situation, I do not storm off. I get in.
Vance squeezes the steering wheel. “His breathing is down to four breaths a minute.”
“How do you know?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I feel stupid. He knows because he’s already been back up there and the nurse must’ve told him exactly that. With an annoyed tone he confirms it.
“Did she say how much time he has left?” The answer to this question has become my personal obsession. I don’t like surprises. I’m a planner, an organizer.
“A day, maybe less.”
We stare out the windshield. A breeze blows through the trees. A red sports car drives by. We stare more.
Eventually I break the silence. “Do you think we should have Dad’s will here?”
Vance huffs. “It’s still in my backpack.”
I wonder what Vance’s reaction would be if I confessed to what I’ve been feeling in my heart—that I want Dad to die.
Vance
Two years ago
Dad made steak fajitas for dinner. The three of us sat at the kitchen table building our meal, with Peter Tosh jamming from the speakers. Dad was a reggae fan as far back as I could remember. He said it started when he was in high school. One of his friends lent him a Bob Marley album, and that was all it took. He even got Mom into it. I think she started liking it on their honeymoon to Jamaica.
Reggae music was part of nearly every happy family memory I had. Like Mom vegging out in the backyard with a glass of wine, listening to Bob or Jimmy Cliff before Dad got home. I used to ask her a million questions, and she’d answer every one. She loved my questions. But that music was also playing in the background of my shittiest memories, like the night she died. Gotta take the good with the bad, I guess.
Speaking of “good,” this was going to be a good dinner. A dinner like we used to have before Mom died.
Oscar said, “Can you pass the onions?”
I took a huge bite of my masterpiece.
The onions were next to Dad. He imitated Oscar in a high-pitched voice, “Can you pass me the onions?” The plate of onions stayed put. “You sound like a girl.”
I swallowed my bite and looked up. I guess Dad was more shit-faced than I’d thought.
“Your voice sounds like a damn girl.” He said it again. I watched him guzzle his glass of vodka and glare at Oscar. “Pass me the onions. Pass me the onions,” he singsonged in his best girlie voice.
Oscar put his hands on his lap. My father reached down under the table, brought up the bottle of vodka that was wedged between his feet, and refilled his glass. Why couldn’t my brother just ask again and make his voice deeper? What was the big deal? He was going to sit there and sulk like a pussy and ruin dinner.
My dad wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. “How d’ja play today, Vance?” He was done with the girlie talk.
“Two goals. Garner’s being a dick about passing to me though.”
My dad ripped a huge burp and cleared his throat. “Be a dick back.”
Before I could tell him that was exactly what I did, Oscar slid his chair away from the table and disappeared upstairs. His plate untouched. I reached over and grabbed his half-built fajita and piled on the missing onions. As I polished off the last bite, my dad leaned over to the iPod dock and cranked the reggae loud. He stood up and danced in the middle of the room.
My dad was having a one-man party, and it bummed me out. He should’ve been smiling, but he looked lonely and sad. Shit, was he going to cry?
“I love this song, Vance,” he shouted. He sang along with Jimmy Cliff till the song ended. “Y-you know what? Do you know why I love reggae? Have I ever told you about the first time I cried from music?”
“No.” Dad cried from music? Did I want to hear this story? Not that I would’ve stopped him, but I already knew why he loved reggae—it was its perfect mellow beat.
“Mom and I were on our honeymoon in Negril, sitting on the beach drinking rum punch. This three-man band was wandering around serenading couples. When they got to us, they broke into my favorite song. I-I didn’t even have to ask them to play it. They just started singing Cliff’s “Many Rivers to Cross.” I remember looking over at your mom and being overwhelmed at how beautiful she was, how she l-loved me and married me, how lucky I was at that exact moment. Something came over me. It felt like a whoosh of, I don’t know, happiness maybe. And I couldn’t help it, I cried. It never happened again, that feeling.” He spun around the kitchen, clapping his hands.
Dad stopped suddenly and leaned on the table, breathing heavily. “Oscar’s just like your mother. So friggin’ sensitive.” The one-year anniversary of Mom’s death was the next day, so maybe that was messing with him. He tossed his head back and forth. “So damn sensitive!” he shouted. He lost his grip and fell back onto his butt.
I jumped out of my seat. “Dad! Are you all right?”
He dropped his chin. “I-I messed everything up. Why do I always mess up? I miss her so much.” When I went to help him stand, he smacked my hand away. “Leave me alone! You remind me of her too!”
Oscar
Vance wants to finish smoking his bowl, so I gladly head in alone. The elevator ride up is brief but soothing. I’ve always liked the way my stomach feels floaty in my body. It’s like a mini version of the roller-coaster sensation. That tiny bit of elevator pleasure lingers as I walk down the quiet hall—but ends when I look into the moaning guy’s room. It’s empty. The television dark. The shades pulled. The bed stripped.
He’s gone, and so is the body he was holding vigil for. My eyes sweep back and forth as my brain tries to organize this new information. It’s the sheetless bed that’s getting to me. The way it signifies emptiness. The “once someone was here and now they’re gone” feeling is so solid with the naked mattress staring at me.
I’m sad for this stranger and for his loss.
The nurse comes out of my father’s room walking backward, talking to someone still in there. For a split second I wonder if she’s talking to him. Maybe my father has rallied and beaten the odds…
A girl holding a laundry bag walks out, which confirms the fact that my father is indeed still dying. The girl and the nurse both turn and look at me. My stomach bottoms out.
The girl is Jacque Beaufort.
“Let me know if you need anything, Oscar,” Marnie says as she takes her seat at the rolling nurse’s station. “I’m sure your brother talked with you outside and filled you in, right?”
I nod. What is Jacque doing here? How can she be standing in the doorway of my father’s room? Wasn’t she just at softball practice?
“I changed your dad’s sheets while you guys were out walking and talking.”
Was Jacque in the room when she changed the sheets? I’ve been in the room when that happened and my father’s hospital gown accidentally slid off, exposing him. Did Jacque see my father naked? My cheeks suddenly burn with humiliation. And the reason my father is dying is disgusting. He doesn’t have cancer; he drank himself into a coma. This is none of her business.
I do not correct Marnie about her assumption that Vance and I were out there “walking and talking,” depending on each other, because the truth would be far too complicated to explain. Vance wouldn’t walk and talk with me unless there was a loaded gun at his back.
Marnie says, “Oscar, let me introduce you to Jacque. She volunteers here for her senior class project.”
Of all the students who could volunteer at the hospice, why did she have to be the one here? Today? Right now?
Jacque’s gaze flicks away, and she shifts her stance. Looks like we’re both very uncomfortable.
“She goes to WCHS too.”
As if I didn’t know this. I want to run away. This is the worst time in the history of time for me to meet her.
Jacque holds out her hand. “Hey, Little Irving. Oscar, right?” I’m stunned that she knows my name. My stomach flattens again. I blink and exhale. I should nod. Should I nod? Shit!
She drops her hand before I have a chance to grab it. I blew it. Now she thinks I’m rude like Vance.
For a split second we lock eyes—the light-blue color of hers is spectacular up close like this.
“I know your brother,” she says.
My lips feel glued shut. I need to get away. I want to lock myself in Dad’s room.
Her brows lift and her face lightens. She grins. It’s the expression from our brief time in sculpture class. Maybe I’m right. Maybe she is complex like me. Maybe—
She says, “Okay, well, tell your brother I said hi.”
Now I’m nodding.
She nods along with me. “And I’m really sorry about your dad.”
Vance
Two years ago
At the bar, I finished unloading the last case of beer and clicked the freezer door shut. Oscar came barreling down the hall lost in his headphones, humming loudly. He didn’t see me, and I took full advantage by plastering myself along the wall, waiting for him to pass, and then I jumped in front of him and gave him a pretty decent shove. His scream was so loud that Joey and Bill came running back.