Clay's Way

by Mastbaum, Blair

There has to be more. I feel a frown on my face that I have no control over. I press my ear to the ground. I can hear something--like vibrations. Maybe, it’s highway noises from far away, maybe cars screeching around corners, or a distant earthquake, but I’d like to think it’s the earth. It makes me feel less alone to know that the earth lives and breathes and feels things like I do. I hate to be like this, so hippie-boy.

  I get up and brush off leaves and dirt from my shorts and T-shirt. I spit on my hands, rub them together till they look clean, and wipe them on the grass. I walk around to the front of the house. The door is still cracked open.

  Chapter 10

  Lonely moon night sky

  Can’t console the hard aching:

  Teenage boyhood soul

  My knuckles make a rattly, tinny sort of knock on the flimsy aluminum screen door.

  Susan doesn’t answer, but Sharky comes running up barking.

  “Hello? Hi, boy.”

  “Hello?” Susan yells over the music.

  “Uhh… hi. It’s Sam.”

  “Sam?” She walks up holding an almost empty wineglass, and smiling. “Hey, handsome, you scared me.” That’s nice of her to say, ‘cause I’m sure I look horrible, especially by adult standards. She looks up at the sky behind me. “Clay’s not here, sweetie. He just left a couple minutes ago. I’m surprised you didn’t see him driving down the hill.”

  I turn around to see what she’s looking at. The sky looks ominous. It’s multi-colored blue, white, and black, like a haunted watercolor painting--the perfect backdrop for me, a wreck of a person. “But... his truck’s here.” I have to make this convincing.

  “Oh, Tammy drove.”

  Tears fill my eyes before I can stop them.

  “Come in, sweetie.” She opens the screen door. “Are you OK?”

  I nod and follow her through the house to the screened-in porch out back. I throw my muddy backpack on the floor. The dampness on my skin starts to evaporate. I sit on a chair facing the backyard.

  Susan looks outside, her head tilted upward to the sky, with a totally relaxed expression on her face. “The wind is soothing, don’t you think?”

  “I hope it rains. There’s nothing like rain.” I wipe my nose with my arm. And I hope Tammy dies a painful death tonight--maybe bad fish poisoning.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” She sits on the sofa, next to a table that’s holding a half-read novel and a bottle of red wine. “Clay loves rain too.”

  I burst out crying.

  “What’s wrong, Sam?”

  I wipe my eyes with my T-shirt sleeve and try to stop crying by holding my breath. I have to tell her how I’m feeling. If I keep this inside, I’ll explode, burst into bloody pieces. “There’s this person I really like and I’m not sure if they like me back.” My face rushes with red, hot blood. That was hard to say.

  “What do you feel in your heart?”

  “I think they like me but won’t admit it to themselves because they’re scared.”

  Sharky runs in and lies down by my feet. He feels soft and warm.

  Susan looks at him. “I think he likes you.”

  He likes me.

  No, she’s talking about the dog.

  We look at each other. An embarrassing connection forms.

  Moms know everything. She has to know Clay likes me, if he does.

  I want to ask her, but I’m way too ashamed. My tears have dried, forming salty paths down both cheeks. I lick what I can reach with my tongue. The salt tastes good. I put my hand under my chin and watch it rain outside. Now my hand’s been there too long. It looks posed. I look out the window. Now it looks like I’m trying to avoid being intimate, avoiding eye contact whenever the situation gets tense, like I don’t understand how to get close because my parents were cold when I was growing up. I’ll just be what she expects me to be--if I only knew what that is. I wish I could go jack off. I should have just done it on Clay’s bed after they left. I’d probably feel normal right now if I had. That’s what I need to do. Now, I just feel trapped.

  “Would you like some dinner? I made some pasta.”

  Clay and Tammy just left her, and I saw how that made her feel. “Yeah, I know... uh... I mean, yeah. Sure.”

  She walks into the kitchen.

  “Thank you.” I listen to the music. It’s great. My stoned daze is wearing off. My eyes feel droopy.

  She walks in, carrying a bowl of pasta and a big glass of red wine. She hands me the bowl formally, like I’m an official guest.

  “Thanks.”

  She doesn’t look me in the eye. Maybe she knows I’m sad about something that isn’t the easiest thing in the world to talk about. If she knew it was about Clay, I bet she’d freak out. Not that she’d be freaked out about him being queer or whatever, but she wouldn’t like the thought of her blood, her son, making me feel so sad. She looks out into the backyard. “I’m worried about that Japanese Maple. It looks so fragile in this wind.”

  I see what she’s talking about, a newly planted tree tied up with two stakes, and I tell her, “I’m sure it will be OK. It’s a tree. They’re used to that sort of thing.”

  She laughs and touches me on the shoulder, cautiously, like I’d jump if she did anything more--but I love it. I love being touched by her. I take a bite of the pasta, which is excellent.

  She drinks wine and watches the wind sweep the lawn and clear away dead leaves and branches.

  My knife slips in between the tongs of the fork. It looks sexual.

  She looks down at my silverware, then quickly looks away.

  When Clay’s on my mind, anything can be taken sexually.

  The screens billow in, then get sucked out by the wind. The screen door at the front of the house opens, then slams shut.

  “Who is it that you like?” Susan looks at me with a sense of adventure on her face.

  I can feel Clay’s name forming on my tongue. What if she gets angry? All these people around trying to steal her son from her. “No one you know. Why didn’t Clay and Tammy eat here with you?” I take a huge gulp of wine.

  “It’s complicated. Tammy wants me to think it’s because she wants to be alone with him, but I think she’s a little jealous of me. She’s possessive. I don’t think Clay will put up with that forever. He’s a free spirit.”

  Is she saying this because she knows? Why else would she tell me about Tammy? This is so fucking great. She doesn’t like Tammy anymore. She’s ready for me. “Clay told me something about not being around when she’s here.” I can’t believe I just said that.

  “I’m sure. She thinks you’ll steal him away.”

  “But... that’s stupid.”

  She fills my glass. Her teeth and tongue are stained red. “Is it?”

  Oh, fuck. She knows.

  I look out into the backyard. The ferns are look white because they are being blown to one side and the wooden fence is rattling hard. “Something big’s going down.”

  “Last time I saw winds like this, I heard roofs flying off of houses. It really makes you appreciate life, doesn’t it?”

  “Without it, we’d be dead.” I smile. Lightning lights my face so bright, I’m sure she can see it needs to be washed.

  She takes the empty wine bottle into the kitchen.

  I’m pretty sure this is fun. I wish Clay was here with us. I think he would be jealous if he knew I was here with his mom in this storm having a great time. I hope he’s having a horrible time.

  Susan walks back in with a joint and another bottle of wine.

  “Oh, my God, that’s so cool.”

  “It’s only a joint. Don’t be a square. It’s a special occasion. And don’t ever come around and ask me for pot. We’ll say this one’s for kahuna kilokilo, the Hawaiian god who watches the skies for omens, and kahuna kilo hoku, the expert of weather. Pray for him to spare the roof and the trees.” She takes a hit and coughs.

  I take a big hit and hand it back to her.

  The music picks up, a happy song. The newl
y planted Japanese Maple is holding up all right--as I suspected.

  Joni Mitchell does a song about what we’re doing: laughing and drinking.

  We sing along together, smiling the entire time. I feel sorta stupid, letting myself dork out so much, but I know the record well from hanging out with Jared’s sister, Kendra, and it’s the perfect song for the occasion.

  A huge gust of wind blows. Aluminum lawn furniture gets tossed across the backyard, barely making it over the fence into the next house’s yard.

  The emergency hurricane siren blows. It sounds out-of-date, but utterly serious and desperate.

  A big branch falls from an old mango tree near the back of the yard where it meets the neighbor’s yard. It’s a violent, cracking, spiked sound. It crashes onto this lightweight aluminum lawn shed Clay uses for a workshop. The sky is deep blue with a black tint. Far away, I hear what sounds like a house being ripped apart, board by board. Big, full, loud, amplified crunches and squeaky strains. I tell Susan, “Hope we’re gonna be OK here.”

  The lights go out. It takes us a second to realize. The hurricane siren blares again, growing louder when the wind shifts in our direction. “Where’s Clay?” I sort of whisper. A horrible image flashes in my mind of Clay thrown in some water-swollen ditch, bewildered and terrified, trying to get up before he drowns, but not being able to because his leg is shattered.

  A power transformer explodes on the next street over, shooting up white sparks. Artificial snow-white flashes make the house behind us back-lit for milliseconds. Shutters fly off the back of the house next door. They fly across the yard and ram into the fence. The potted hanging spider plants knock against each other in the wind. Soil flies up and sticks on the wet screen. The lights on the next street over go off with a flash.

  Clay’s dog cowers under the chair I’m sitting in, which makes me scared. Animals have an excellent sense of oncoming tragedy, when to be scared and what to ignore. He starts barking fiercely, like he’s defending himself.

  Susan gets up quickly, runs out the flapping screen door into the rain and wind. She kicks dirt and mud around the base of the young tree. Her big, flowing, hibiscus-flowered mu’u mu’u whips around like a flag on a windy day. As she gets soaked, I can see the shape of her body underneath her dress. She’s skinny and her kneecaps stick out like mine. Her breasts are like a high school girl’s. Her hair is soaked. She’s possessed. She’ll do anything for that tree. Suddenly, she stops and looks up into the sky. Wind and rain pelt her. “You have to feel this, Sam. Come out here.”

  Several metal sheets whip through the sky above the backyard.

  I walk outside. The raindrops feel like icicles. The wind feels like it could carry me away. I hear the sound of a big tree branch breaking. It crackles through the air like electricity. It feels like nothing I’ve ever felt, and makes all my problems seem small. I’m speechless for awhile, at one with the sky, then tell her, “This is incredible.”

  She nods crazily. “Would you look at that moon? It’s absolutely stunning. Well, it’s gone now. Watch for it, Sam. It’s worth the wait.”

  The moon pokes through thick, black clouds. I’m amazed it’s still up there in its calm, cold vacuum, untouched by all this.

  I see two Hawaiian guys in the carport beyond the yard.

  They look like brothers. They walk to the back of the carport and grab surfboards. They peel away in a pickup truck, tires spinning on the wet pavement.

  We walk inside, soaked and exhilarated. I’m happy nature can be as angry, angsty, and crazy as me.

  Susan picks up the wine bottle, searching for something. “Where’s your glass, Sam?”

  “Uhh...” I’m too stoned to remember. I spot it, lying on the floor, shattered, reflecting light in a hundred directions, like a star. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

  “Storms have a way of disguising the reality of our plane of existence.” She sounds like such a stoner.

  “Yeah.” I start laughing. The wind picks up even stronger. I hear a horrible, loud metal bang.

  “That sounded like a car accident.” Susan looks toward the house, with a terrified look on her face.

  “Yeah, and totally close.” I get up and follow her to the front door.

  She swings it open. The warm rain stings our faces. “Oh, my God!”

  “Oh, fuck.”

  Her car, a blue Toyota, is dwarfed by a thick tree branch lying on its totally smashed-in hood. It looks like a car dressed up as a tree for Halloween.

  She looks up at the sky, and the rain beats down on her face. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to do this myself!” she shouts, laughing.

  Quickly, the sky turns a deep midnight blue. The winds stop. The trees regain their composure. A couple more leaves fall, then all is still--too still.

  We walk out to the street, where newspapers touch down and get glued to wet pavement. The air haunts slowly around and fills our lungs with oxygen picked up from hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away.

  “I think we’re in the eye, Sam.” She looks straight up to the sky, where some stars shine through.

  I see a bit of Clay in her profile. “How long will it last?”

  “Maybe 20 minutes, maybe less.”

  I feel the circle of energy surrounding us.

  “The hurricane plays games with us just like people play games with each other.”

  I feel like I should say something like she said, something deep-sounding. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s cool.”

  I’m such a loser.

  The eye feels less centered now. My head wants to tilt to one side.

  She slips on wet leaves, spasms, and raises her arms to catch her balance. “It’s coming, Sam. The big part of the storm is coming.”

  “I hope so.” I’m starting to spin. I’m forgetting the words that leave my mouth as soon as I say them, and I don’t want to say anything stupid or give myself away. She’ll think I’m using her to get to Clay, and I’m not, even though I wouldn’t put that past me. I’d do anything for him to love me. I think I’d kill.

  The winds pick up quickly.

  I see headlights coming up the hill.

  Clay drives up the street in Tammy’s car. The windshield is shiny and clean except for a few lime-green leaves. My peripheral vision vanishes like I’m in a tunnel. I start to sweat. My eyes never stray from Clay’s face. They’re red and watery, but I don’t care if he knows I’ve been crying.

  I’m an emotional haiku poet.

  I have a right to cry about the boy I love.

  Chapter 11

  Angry typhoon, friend,

  Over sea, your brisk winds blow;

  Discontented eyes.

  Tammy sits in her car like a queen, with no reaction to the fucked up Toyota.

  Clay parks her stupid car, jumps out, and runs over to where his mom’s hood is totally smashed in. He starts laughing. “Gnarly! What the fuck happened here?”

  “Kahuna kilo hoku granted my wish and finally destroyed this rusting hunk of metal.” Susan smiles at him. “We were worried about you.”

  Clay looks at me and doesn’t look away. We could be on wild horses jumping over valleys and we could keep this eye contact.

  Tammy gets out of the car.

  The folk music stops. Weird, instrumental stuff that sounds like the musical equivalent of having a bad trip starts playing inside on the stereo.

  I feel my eyes crossing. My vision blurs. I look at Clay’s fuzzy face. I can’t hear anything but flutes in a sound tunnel, echoing indistinct drones. I’m dizzy. My stomach’s feels like it’s going to float away. I’m defying gravity. I’m falling. Everything’s fading.

  I’m underwater. It’s my worst nightmare. Sharks are circling me, their big fangs piercing through depths of cold, dark water. Scavenger fish are organizing efforts. The cold penetrates me to my bones. Swirling trees in circles, with color rings flaring off their surfaces. Strange light barely makes it to my brain. I smell cut grass. I lose my breath. Cold water soaks
through the back of my shirt. I try to focus my eyes. A shape, a body, is holding me.

  “Sam? Sam?”

  I’m thinking what? but my mouth can’t make the “W” sound. I see Clay’s dragon tattoo on his arm and it looks like it’s floating above his skin.

  He slides his hands underneath me.

  I see him through hazy clouds.

  He’s holding me.

  I feel his heartbeat.

  Susan walks over to me. “Sam? Are you with us?”

  Tammy makes a grunting sound, like she’s about to throw up.

  Clay looks at her, then loosens his grip on me and sits up straight, like he’s just helping out one of his surf brahs who wiped out on a massive wave.

  Tammy peers at us. She doesn’t move from the driveway. She just stares--scared, sad, cold, still.

  Susan leans down and rubs my leg. “You OK?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She rubs Clay’s head affectionately, then looks at Tammy.

  Clay looks at her too. I can see him struggling – half way between anger and feeling sorry for her.

  She’s alone on the driveway.

  Susan gestures to her. “Come on in, dear. It’s going to start pouring again any second. I’ve got some nice wine. Come in and have a glass.”

  But Tammy won’t move from her place on the driveway. She won’t let her feet touch the grass and dirt. She can’t help the look on her face, like she’s seeing something paranormal, and it scares her.

  Big raindrops start plopping on the cement, the beginning of a huge tropical soak.

  Susan takes a step toward her. “I’ve got some comfy clothes for you in my bedroom. Come dry off.”

  She stumbles forward, almost falling off the driveway.

  Clay looks down at me, still sitting in the wet grass in the rain. “Do you feel all right, dude?”

  “Uhh... yeah,”

  Tammy stops on the front porch and just stands there, looking at us.

  Clay looks at her.

  Susan holds the screen door open.

  Tammy just stares, like she’s going to throw up, and mindlessly wanders to the door. Her high heel gets caught in a crack, and breaks off. She falls over. Her butt smacks down in a puddle in the grass. She says fuck, then stands up quickly. The back of her dress is muddy. It sticks to her butt. Her hair’s a stringy mess. Streams of hairspray-laden rain run down her face. She squints her eyes and looks at us for a split second. Then her expression totally changes and presto chango, she looks more graceful and honest than she ever has and I’m almost impressed. She looks away and Susan ushers her into the house and lifts up the back of her dress to avoid getting mud on the carpet.