All This Life (20 page)

Sure, it was schmaltzy, Sara recognized that back then, but what was wrong with schmaltz? Why not indulge in some when your life was surrounded by cinderblocks?

She actually says it aloud now, floating in the river, eyes still closed, feeling the sun warm her torso and feet and face: “It's never dark with you.”

Sara has to help him get out of the car. She has to tell him directly that it's cool for him to come swimming. That's what she wants. That's why they're here.

“Hey,” she calls, not opening her eyes or turning her head toward the car, voice stretching to a scream, “are you getting in here or what?”

“In,” he says, speaking at a normal volume.

Sara's legs flail, eyes open, and she lets them find the bottom, standing up. “Jesus, what are you—a spy or something?” she asks. “I didn't hear you make a single sound slipping in the water.”

“Nin. Ja,” says Rodney.

There he is in his boxers, floating on his back only a few feet away from her. Sara relaxes and starts floating again, too.

“There's barely any water left,” she says, “because of the drought, but I wanted to show you this place. My dad used to take me rafting here. Can you believe it? There used to be enough water for rapids, and we'd leave from this spot. Fight down the river through all the currents and twists. Now it's a puddle.”

She pauses, seeing if he wants to say something, but Sara knows there's not much to add. She's bobbing in self-sympathy. Sara's not really talking to him anyway. Not talking to her parents. Not talking to anyone. Except herself. The river used to be something and now it's nothing and so is Sara and that's the truth.

“It. Will. Rain,” Rodney says.

“What?”

“It. Will. Rain.”

“It might.”

“It. Will.”

He's right, she guesses. That is a possibility. The puddle floods and swells and soon it's a river again. Soon daughters and dads will grab paddles and life jackets and fly down the rapids.

“You're right,” she says.

“You. O. Kay?”

“No,” says Sara, “but I like being here with you. I like thinking that it might rain again.”

“What do you think our families are doing to each other?” Sara says. “Do you think Larry and Felix really attacked my brother?”

Rodney shrugs his shoulders.

They're both floating on their backs, slowly moving with the languid current. Sara wiggles her toes. Rodney does it, too.

This is what it would have felt like if she'd gotten on the balloon with him. Before he fell. When it was just a boy hovering. Sara stood on the ground, astonished, in awe. She stood there jealous, thinking that if he was going away she wanted to be with him. She was scared but not for his safety; she was scared she'd never see him again, watch him vanish on the horizon to a crumb in the sky.

“What if there's nothing left for us?” she asks. “What if they've torn it all down, burned everything up? What would we do?”

“Leave,” he says.

“To where?”

“Cal. I. For. Ni. A.”

“California?”

Rodney nods.

“Why?” she says.

“Mom.”

“How do you know she's there?”

“Dad. Told. Me.”

“I'd go to California with you,” she says.

Rodney grabs her hand.

Well,
grab
isn't the right word. He slips his palm on top of Sara's and they slither their fingers together. He instigates it; she helps their hands find the right grip. They'll never be in the backyard
tent again, but that doesn't mean they can't have a moment in this river.

Rodney is holding her hand, and she's holding his, and they're in underwear, and she looks over at him, though his eyes are closed. She sees his smile and Sara notices a couple dragonflies popping on top of the water and everything is silent so she closes her eyes too, straightens her neck to the center and the sun perfectly roasts her face.

Sara has found the only person besides her brother that will give her the benefit of the doubt. They'll float here, wet palm in wet palm, weightless and warmed, without any connection to the world.

SARA TURNS HER
car onto their block, and everything appears normal. There are no police cars, fire trucks. The SWAT team isn't perched on rooftops with rifles. Animal control isn't wrestling with Bernard, fresh from chewing out Felix's and Larry's jugular. Sara can't see any amputated limbs littering the field of battle.

The block is quiet, and she slows the car in front of Rodney's house, but doesn't stop. The light is on in the front room, and they can see someone's silhouette through the window, either jogging around or dancing.

“That Felix or your dad?”

“Un. Cle.”

“What's he doing?”

“Sing. Ing.”

“He sings?”

“Dan. Ces. Too.”

“Oh, shit, that's terrible,” she says.

Rodney nods.

“Do you want to come over?” Sara says. “I don't really want this day to end.”

She says it and means it, but it makes her pause. She should absolutely want this day to end. It's been the shittiest one since losing her parents. Finding out about the sex tape, getting suspended from work, but the last few hours have been great. She got a double dose of support: First, Hank handled all this so much better than she ever imagined he would, and then she got to reconnect with Rodney, holding hands in the river.

She checked her phone right before they drove home, and she still hasn't heard back from Nat. Sara's coming to grips with the fact she might never know why he did it. That piece of information might evade her, but what she did learn today is equally important. She knows Rodney is still in there.

“You. Sure?” he asks.

“Yeah, come over,” she says.

He nods again.

Sara keeps rolling up the block.

Her house looks undisturbed from the outside. Either they had a quick dust-up and hillbilly order has been restored, or they decided to hold a finicky truce.

Sara parks in front of the house and says, “Don't forget your underwear.”

His boxers, her bra and panties, are laid out on the back seat.

Rodney blushes and Sara wants to say something like
Getting shy now?
but it's so endearing she giggles at his red cheeks.

They park and walk up to the house, waving their still-wet undies around, being silly. They lope up the front steps and the door is wide open and she can hear Hank yelling into his phone.

That's when her hands go off, vibrating cell phones.

She can hear Hank stomping about, threatening whoever's on the other end of the call, saying, “So you're saying this is everywhere, and I can't do nothing to stop it?”

“Hank?” says Sara from the front doorway, still holding her bra and panties, Rodney a step behind her with balled-up boxers in one hand.

“Gotta go, Colby,” Hank says into the phone. “She's here. I gotta deal with this shit.”

Hank stomps into the front room with Bernard trotting behind him. “Why's he with you?” Hank asks, pointing at Rodney.

“Don't worry about it.”

“Why you carrying your panties, Sara?”

Sara. He calls her Sara. Not Baby Sis. Not anything with affection. Agitation. Letters, two consonants, two vowels. Sara doesn't understand what could've changed. He was so supportive earlier, drinking beers in the kitchen and swimming in the empty pool and now he has hate in his eyes. He doesn't look drunk, though, only ornery.

“What's wrong, Hank?” she says.

“That was Colby.”

“I heard.”

“I guess congratulations are in order,” Hank says.

Poor Rodney is glued in the doorway with his dripping boxers. Sara peeks at him for a second and wishes to flee this house, this block and town, but it's too late. They're here. She's here, and she doesn't know what's coming next, but she knows it's not good.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Sara says.

“Skank of the week!”

“What does that mean, Hank?”

“You are skank of the week on some porno site. Colby says it's already had over 100,000 hits. It's viral, Sara. And from the looks of it,” Hank says, coming over and grabbing her panties out of her hands, “you were out making another dirty movie. Did you fuck the town retard, Sara?”

“Don't talk to me like that!” she says.

“No!” Rodney says, stepping into the room.

Hank takes the panties and throws them right in Rodney's face, tries to step up to him, but before her brother can get to him, before Hank can hurt him again, Sara stands between them, saying to Rodney, “I need you to leave.”

“No,” he says.

“Leave,” she says. “Please.”

“Ten seconds till I make you leave,” Hank says.

“I'll be fine,” Sara says and ushers him out, shutting and locking the door, feeling fear—actual fear—she's scared of her brother. He's never raised a hand to her, but it doesn't seem impossible tonight.

She turns to him.

“What's it feel like to be skank of the week?” he asks.

“Why are you talking to me like this? You knew about the video. Who cares what Colby thinks?”

“It ain't Colby. It's everyone, Sara. 100,000 hits in a day. A million in a week. Everyone will see it!”

“Why is this making you so mad?”

“And I no longer care what you think about Nat,” Hank says. “I'm going to destroy him.”

“Please stop, Hank,” Sara says.

It's almost a whisper, which he can't hear. His eyes are far away, clomping around the room. His eyes are submerged in violence. They've tasted the chum and now need real meat.

Sara doesn't require his help, anybody's help hating herself right now. Some website can't brand her the skank of the week because she's been tagging that on her skull's walls all day, with almost every breath.

“What do you want me to do about it?” she asks. “How can I make this better?”

“And then you flit in here holding your panties?” he says. “Rubbing my face in all this? Making me have to see you slut around?”

“You're breaking my heart,” she says and starts crying and runs to her room, throws the closet open, gets a ratty suitcase and unzips it and stuffs whatever clothes she can fit. Snatches her emergency money. Her hands aren't only vibrating cell phones on the inside anymore. They're flat-out shaking. She's shaking. And crying so hard
that saliva runs from the corners of her mouth. To walk in the house and be shamed by her brother is the day's final disgrace.

Next she takes the suitcase into the bathroom and flings her toothbrush and hairbrush and there are probably ten other things she should grab, but she can't think of what they might be, zipping it up and turning to the door. She can't concentrate on any particulars because there are amplifiers blaring in her head, heaving Hank's shames over and over, playing them like power chords.

All that matters is fleeing this house.

All that matters is speeding outside the city limits.

All that matters is not being here.

“Where are you going?” Hank says in the doorway.

“What do you care if a skank of the week leaves?”

“You're not going anywhere, Sara.”

“Stop calling me that!” she says, wishing she were strong enough to slam him in the temple and topple him to the ground, telling him,
My name is Baby Sis
.

“Calling you what?”

“I'm taking a trip,” she says.

“You're not.”

And she and her ratty suitcase run full speed into Hank. He doesn't budge. The dog starts barking from the hallway. Obviously, Hank can manhandle her, but he's not. He's letting her slam into him and he's letting her drag the suitcase away and letting her amble through the front door and letting her shut it. Sara can't tell what would feel worse—him making her stay, or him allowing her to leave—and her thoughts are the loudest they've ever been, cranking through those amplifiers and her hands keep buzzing and buzzing and she's crying harder than she ever has, even more than when her parents died because that at least had shock as a component and there's none of that numbing here. No, there's only Hank crunching up her heart like an aluminum can.

Sara's at her car, looking over her shoulder to see if Hank will come out and stop her, but the house is quiet. Even Bernard has stopped barking. The quiet at the river had felt so peaceful, yet this one feels fickle and cruel.

She throws open the trunk and stows the suitcase and opens the driver's side door and notices someone's inside. She jumps back.