Bottled Up (24 page)

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Authors: Jaye Murray

BOOK: Bottled Up
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“You're a piece of work,” he said.
“I figure if I had a license I could get a job, drive to work, be responsible.”
“What do you know about being responsible?”
“I could save money and buy a car.”
“A car?”
“Sure. I could park it in the garage since it's clean now. You're not using it.”
He looked at me and for a second I looked back. I wasn't sure how much he remembered about that night he chased me and Mikey into the garage. I didn't even know if he ever figured out that he was the one who gave me the black eye.
“I should wait as long to take you off of being grounded as it took
you
to clean that garage.”
“I don't know why I had to clean it anyway. It wasn't my mess.”
“Pour me another drink,” he said. He pushed his glass across the table.
I kept spinning the cap. I didn't want to fix him a drink. I didn't want a father who drank like him, and I didn't want to help him do it.
“I'm not pouring any drinks these days,” I told him.
He snorted and got up from the table. “You're drinking straight from the bottle now?”
“I'm not like you,” I said.
That just slipped out of my mouth, as if the words had been hanging on my lips for weeks.
I heard the scotch splash into his glass, then the sound of the bottle being slid back onto the top of the fridge.
He came back over to the table and sat down. “No. You're not like me.”
He took a drink, and then put his glass on the table and started twisting it around in circles. I was still spinning the bottle cap. I don't think we were able to look at each other.
“I'm a man who's angry most of the time and sorry the rest of it,” he said. “You're just angry.”
I stopped spinning the cap. “I never heard you say you were sorry.”
“You're more like my father than you are like me,” he said, totally ignoring my last comeback. I let it go because he was talking about his old man. I don't remember my grandfather. He died when I was three years old. My father never said too much about him.
“He was an angry, angry man. I don't think I ever saw him smile. Not even on Christmas.”
He took a long pull from his glass. “I never liked him,” he said, then looked right at me. He kept his eyes on mine for like a million years. At least it felt that long.
“Your father teach
you
how to drive?” It was all I could think to say to get him to stop staring at me. And I guess I wanted to know too.
“I took public transportation until I was twenty-two. A man I worked with named Bud Oleman taught me how to drive.”
He took another drink.
“My father never taught me how to ride a bike either. Uncle Freddy did that one Sunday on my cousin Jack's three-speed Raleigh.”
“Did you ever tell him how much you hated him?”
“No. I didn't want to hurt him.”
“Why not?”
“I loved him like hell,” he said. He took another drink and held on to the glass. “He was my father.”
He threw his head back to finish off his drink.
“Ball game's on,” he said, then got up from the table and brought his glass to the counter for a refill. He didn't move when he got there. He just stood at the counter, staring out the window.
I went over, took something out of my pocket, and put it on the counter where he could see it.
“I found this in the garage,” I said.
He picked it up, and for a split second I caught his smile
“Seems like a whole other life ago,” he said with his eyes still on the picture. “You were angry at me that day too—couldn't understand why I had to let go of the back of the bike.”
He put the picture on the counter and went back to looking out the window.
“Couldn't understand why I had to let go,” he said again, shaking his head. “Anyway. I don't want to miss the game.” He dumped his ice cubes in the sink and opened the freezer for some fresh ones.
I started to walk out of the kitchen, but he called me back.
“Don't forget this,” he said.
I turned around, figuring he was going to give me back the picture, but he had a fifty-dollar bill in his hand.
“For the driving lesson,” he said.
I took the fifty from him, and he turned around fast. The picture wasn't on the counter anymore and I didn't ask for it back. I had another copy where all the other pictures in my head were.
We didn't say anything else. Maybe there wasn't anything else to say.
I went outside and he didn't stop me, so I figured I wasn't grounded anymore.
I was free, but I didn't really have anyplace to go. All my friends were either dead or on their way to being dead.
I could hear the ice cubes cracking out of their tray in the kitchen.
I took what I was holding in my hand and threw it across the street as far as I could.
It felt a lot heavier than just a bottle cap.
But it went pretty far.
I know what I want.
I finally figured it out.
A car went by the other day, and I caught a look at one of the bumper stickers plastered on the back.
All the things I thought I wanted really come down to the same thing.
Peace.
I
do
know what I want. I just haven't been saying it right.
But now that I know, I have to figure out how I'm ever going to find it.
So I've been sitting in the driveway thinking about everything. Sort of playing the whole story out in my head.
I thought it all started when Fleming “had it with me” and made me go to Giraldi's office. Now I'm thinking it started way before that. It started sometime I'll never be able to really put my finger on.
I think change is something that starts out small, before you notice it. Then out of nowhere it kicks you in the ass and makes you pay attention.
Mikey's been running up and down this driveway for over an hour, shooting hoops. He keeps trying to get me to play with him, but I haven't played ball since I was a kid. It's not a part of who I am anymore. I hope
he
keeps playing, though. Like the doctor said, I'd rather see him throwing balls than bottles.
“You're a chicken,” he says, starting up with me again.
“What are you talking about?”
“You're too scared to play me because I'm better than you.”
“I don't like basketball.”
“Dad put this hoop up for
you.
”
“Yeah, back when I was young and stupid like you.”
“Chicken,” he says, and takes a shot.
“Why do you want me to play ball with you?”
“We got nothing else to do. All you been doing is just sitting there smoking cigarettes.”
“You can go to Eddie's house if you want.”
“No thanks.”
“Why not?”
“I'd rather hang out with you.”
“What for? I'm boring.”
“You're super boring. I just want to, that's all.”
He's dribbling the ball right by me, so I hit it out of his hand.
“Hey,” he yells.
“Hay is for horses,” I say, and dribble the ball down to the end of the driveway.
My brother's looking at me as if he's seeing a ghost. But he's smiling.
He runs down the driveway and tries to get the ball from me. He comes close a few times but I'm too fast for him.
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” I say.
“Time out,” he yells, then bends over to tie his sneakers.
“Time out,”
I tease him. “You're just too chicken to play me.”
“I'll show you,” he says, taking his time looping his lace around to make a knot.
“Pip?”
I stop dribbling, because my lungs are used to smoke—not exercise.
“How come M&M's are soft on the inside and hard on the outside?”
While I'm coughing I'm thinking about what Jenna said to me about being that way.
“Because,” I tell him, “that's just the way it is with M&M's.”
I go back to dribbling, and he comes after me. I turn to the left, then to the right. I'm about to take another shot, but I almost trip.
Mikey yells again. “Time out!”
“Now what?” I say with the ball under my arm.
He walks over and squats down in front of me. He pulls my laces hard and starts tying my shoes.
And I let him.
I'm not going to be anybody's hero. He can do stuff for me sometimes too, like wake me up from myself.
And I can get my ass to counseling and try to stay clean and sober so I don't forget to pick him up anymore—so I can keep an eye on him.
I can try that.
For now I'll do it for him. Someday, if it catches on, I'll do it for myself.
But me and Bugs—we're going to get our slice of the pizza, our piece of the pie. Our peace.
And it's all going to start right here in the driveway, running around shooting hoops—both of us with red capes flying off the backs of our shirts.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people to thank for so many reasons . . .
 
Laura Heisler
—for time, for space, for trying, for giving
 
Emma
—for her hugs after long writing sessions—for understanding about dreams
 
Lucky
—for being a tye-dyed spirit and Mommy's little Buddha
 
Regina Abdou
—for helping me cough up the very first pages—my throat still hurts
 
Jason Coffman
—for being my escort, my cheerleader, and my best friend
 
John Murray, Jr
.—for teaching me how to look beyond the obvious—that really helps writing
 
Marie Murray
—for helping me develop a passion for books
 
Debbie Whitman
—for showing up just in time to watch the dream wake me up
 
Christine Pellicano
—for being the first to tell me to go for it
 
Wendy Baker
—for her enthusiasm and for always watching my literary back
 
Gertrude
—for giving me a lot to think about
 
Shihan Chris Colombo
—for providing a safe outlet for demon slaying
 
Connie Newman
—for reality checks when reality was the last priority
Lisa Hollinger Sorensen
—for turning graveyard smiles into a Kodak moment
 
Lauri Hornik
—for taking a chance—for easing me into all of this with such care and consideration
Every project has a soundtrack. I am grateful to all the music that kept me company as this story unfolded again and again. To name a few:
“Superman” by Five for Fighting; “Evaporated” by Ben Folds Five; “Dragon Attack” by Queen (RAK and Jack Benson remix); “The More We Try” by Kenny Loggins; “Downed” by Cheap Trick; “Ooh Child” by Valerie Carter; “Never Surrender” by Corey Hart; “Jump” by Kris Kross; “Any Lucky Penny” by Nikki Hessman; “Where We Were Before” by Blessed Union of Souls; “Out of My Head” by Fastball; “Down Boys” by the Cars; “Family Portrait” by Pink; “Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace” by Cheap Trick
A special thanks to all the kids and teens who shared their stories with me during our time together at Daytop Village, ADAPP, and the Harrison Youth Council.

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