Dirt (6 page)

Chapter 9

T
hey were all in rocking chairs on the front deck.

He's a chameleon, Jennifer said. He's all white now. What happened to the red?

What did you do? his mother asked.

Fishing, he said, but his voice came out hollow and shaky. His teeth were chattering. He was careful up the porch steps, set his lance beside the door. He felt bony.

I guess we'll be feasting on trout tonight, then, his aunt said, and Jennifer laughed.

Today was just to figure out where they're at, Galen said.

They're in the creek.

Stop, his mother said.

That's okay, Galen said. I saw the creek today in a way you've never seen it, Helen. You have no idea what the creek is.

I've only been coming here my whole life.

That's the problem. Your whole life you've been only half waking.

Honestly, she said. What are you going to do when you have to go out into the real world?

The way you've done? Don't you live in a crap apartment paid for by Grandma? He was still having trouble getting the words out, his chest hollow. He really needed to warm up. I'm taking a bath, he said.

You'll have to turn on the water heater, his mother said. Takes about twenty minutes to warm up.

Fuck, he said. I'm really cold.

Galen, his grandmother said.

Sorry.

Are we leaving today? his grandmother asked. She looked suddenly worried.

No, Mom, Galen's mother said. We just got here. We have plenty of time.

Oh, she said, and settled back in her chair. I hate it when I can't remember.

Galen stepped inside and ran into the hide-a-bed. Can't you wait and put out the bed at night? he yelled.

You entitled little shit, his aunt yelled back.

Helen. It was a chorus from his mother and grandmother.

Galen climbed over the bed. In the bathroom, he flicked the switch for the water heater, closed the door and slumped against it and felt so sad suddenly. He'd never fought with his aunt, never in his life. The best of his early memories were with her, in fact. An inflatable pool on his grandparents' lawn, and she ran around the edge of it dragging him by the arms, making a whirlpool. Her laughter then always generous and real. He didn't know what had happened. Some mistake, something that shifted the wrong way in the last couple days. She'd made comments before, but he'd thought they were just in fun.

Galen didn't understand how lives were supposed to overlap. He had brought each of these people into this incarnation to teach him a specific lesson. But if his aunt had a spirit or a soul, too, then she had her own lessons to learn, and how did all of this line up? How could it be synchronized?

Maybe a person could be put on pause. His aunt still angry about her childhood. She hadn't realized yet that memory was only an illusion. Maybe you could remain stuck forever if you refused to learn a particular lesson. But she hadn't seemed angry before. Maybe it was Jennifer growing older. Maybe that was the difference. She was fighting for Jennifer now. In his earliest memories of his aunt, Jennifer didn't yet exist.

Galen's T-shirt and shorts were damp. He hadn't had a towel at the creek. His skin rough with goose bumps, shivering.

His grandmother, unable to remember anything, was definitely on pause. Someone taking a break from the game. Then there was the big question of what the game was even about. Why were we all trying to learn lessons? Galen knew it was so we'd finally be without attachment, but why did attachment ever have to exist in the first place?

Twenty minutes was a very long time. He stood and took off his damp shirt and shorts, grabbed a dry towel and rubbed himself with it, tried to get some heat through friction. The ceiling sagging in here, long planks hanging low in the center, a single bare bulb for light. This room an addition, not the original cabin, so apparently the old-timers didn't need baths. Maybe they just washed in the creek. They had all been tougher in the past. Though of course the past didn't really exist. History another illusion. It meant only what we made of it now.

Galen checked the tap a few times, and finally it was hot enough to run the bath. He sat in the tub while it filled, the most delicious heat. It was possible, of course, that he was the only real person here, the only one with a spirit or soul. It could be that each soul lived in a mirror-land with no one else around.

Galen dozed in the tub, sleepy from the heat, but then Jennifer was banging at the door. I'm next, she said. Hurry up. I want a bath before dinner.

So Galen rose and dried, careful on his thighs, which were hot and red again, and walked out in a towel.

I can see your ribs, Jennifer said. Even in your back. That's gross.

This is only a shell, Galen said. It doesn't matter.

We'll see, Jennifer said. She had her hair up and was already wrapped in a towel.

Galen went upstairs and wondered what that meant. His aunt and mother and grandmother all on the porch still. They hadn't started dinner yet, so it would be a while. He slipped under the covers and grabbed the
Hustler
from his duffel. He had to be careful not to come, in case she was planning a visit.

In the
Hustler
, the man was dressed as a musketeer, with a long feather in his hat. He was taking a break from his duties, and he had met several women who were short on clothing. The photo shoot was like a bad school play, but it didn't matter. Galen felt turned on anyway.

He was listening for anyone coming up the stairs, and finally that stressed him out too much, so he put the magazine away and waited.

Samsara, attachment to the world. Sexual desire was the worst of it. A need he could feel in his spine, all the way up his back and neck, connecting to his mouth. It was crazy, absolutely crazy, and it made time crawl. Only a eunuch could feel peace. Neutered. That was the fastest path to enlightenment.

He didn't really believe Jennifer would visit, but she did. She came up the steps and he turned on the bedside lamp. She was holding a deck of cards, wearing a skirt and T-shirt. I told them we're playing cards before dinner, she said.

She sat on his mother's bed and dealt pinochle hands on the bedside table. Her skirt was short, and Galen couldn't help trying to peek. He was embarrassed.

It's okay, she said, spreading her knees. You can look.

She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

We have a few rules, she said. One is that you can only do what I say. The other is that you can't make any sound. And of course you can't tell anyone.

Yes, he said.

She smiled. Look at you. You're so desperate. Twenty-two, and you've never had any pussy.

Have you had sex?

Of course, she said. Everyone has. Except you. Now lie back, and scoot down a bit.

He pulled the covers aside.

No, she said. Keep the covers on. And if anyone comes up the stairs, sit up quick and grab your pinochle hand.

Okay, he said. But what are we doing?

She climbed onto the mattress with her knees on either side of his head, then spread her knees and lowered down just above his face.

Wow, he said. She looked better than the women in the magazine, younger. So perfect, he said. So beautiful.

Don't make any sound.

Can I touch?

You can.

He felt the inside of her thigh with his cheek, with his nose. So soft and warm.

Use your whiskers, she said, so he ran the edge of his jaw along her thigh.

I like that, she said. Turn your face to the side and hold still.

He did as he was told, and felt her wet lips on his cheek.

Sandpaper, she said. I like that.

Galen felt a little annoyed, because he couldn't see with his head turned to the side. She was humping his jaw, which was kind of like she was having sex without him. He turned his face toward her but she pushed him back down, a hand on his forehead, and kept humping his jaw. He didn't like this at all. The whole side of his face was wet.

Okay, she said finally. She pulled his face upright and sat on it. You can lick.

Galen could hardly breathe. He moved his tongue around, but it didn't seem to matter much what he did. She moved up higher so that his nose was inside her, and she humped his nose. It didn't seem like his tongue was even on her pussy anymore. It was lower than that.

Lick my ass, she whispered, and he realized that was what he was doing.

I like that, she moaned. I like that. She sped up, bucking harder against his nose, which was locked into a kind of groove, and he just kept licking.

Galen couldn't hear well, the way she was humping his head down into the pillow in heavy swings, and he worried about someone coming up the stairs. The bed was probably knocking against the wall by now.

He was breathing through his mouth, and having to swallow. He felt like he was drowning. His entire face and forehead a slick.

I like that, she kept saying. She grabbed the back of his head with a hand and pulled him in closer. Shake your head as you do it, she said. So he shook his head back and forth as he licked.

Ooh, she said. Yeah. Keep licking.

He realized he had slowed down a bit with his tongue. It was hard to do it all at once: breathing, licking, shaking his head back and forth, trying to keep his whiskers in play.

Her thighs tensed, and she pulled his face up harder and slowed down. He could feel her trembling. She pushed into him hard enough once more to break off his nose, and then she was jerking in place.

Aah, she was saying. Aah. She rose off of his face and had a few more jerks. The muscles in her thighs, the soft lines, the beautiful pink. He couldn't believe he was seeing this. He'd lost his boner at first, but he had it back now, and he couldn't wait to put it in.

She climbed off, and he turned to the side to wipe his face on the sheet. Even his hair was wet.

Wow, he said.

She had her skirt back down and sat on his mother's bed. He pulled his sheet and blanket back, and she looked at his boner. Sorry, she said. I'm done.

What?

You can't have everything at once.

But I didn't get anything.

So entitled. My mother's right about you. You got my pussy, which is more than you deserve. Do you know how many boys at school would kill just to see my pussy?

Can I just look at it while I jack off, then?

No. I'm done. Pick up your pinochle hand.

Fuck, Galen said.

Don't be a baby.

Galen felt very angry suddenly. But he didn't want to say the wrong thing. So he sat against the wall, propped on his pillow, and picked up his cards.

There you go, she said. And you might want to wash your face before dinner.

Chapter 10

D
inner was not chicken and dumplings. That would come later, when it could cook all day in the stew pot. Dinner tonight was a tuna casserole. A jar of mayonnaise, several large cans of tuna, a large bag of potato chips, and squares of American cheese on top.

You've really gone all out, Galen said.

Galen's mother was just setting the casserole on a hot pad in the center of the small table. The kitchen was tiny, and they were all elbow to elbow.

You've used an entire bag of potato chips, Galen said. Do you have any idea how much salt that is?

He was already starting to sweat, the cast-iron stove emanating incredible heat. They had the windows and back door open, but that wasn't enough.

Maybe it's time to throw away the white-trash cookbook, Galen said.

His mother grabbed his upper arm hard, pinching the skin, and yanked him out of his seat.

Suzie-Q, his grandmother said, and his mother let go. He sat back down.

Are we white trash? he asked. I'm never going to college, and none of us have jobs, and here we are out in the woods. Next thing you know, I'll be sleeping with my cousin.

Stop, Helen said.

Jennifer narrowed her eyes and then looked down at her plate. Maybe this was how he could have some power over her. Maybe she needed everything kept a secret more than he did.

This isn't you, Galen, his grandmother said. Your grandfather designed a bridge in Sacramento. You're a Schumacher, and you can always be proud of that.

Sorry, Grandma.

A pile of mush on everyone's plate, the wilted potato chips golden and oily.

Men are the problem, Helen said. First Dad and now you.

You won't talk to my son that way, Galen's mother said.

Weren't you just trying to rip his arm off?

He's not like Dad.

But I thought Dad was perfect. I thought he drank lemonade and had lovely lunches under the fig tree. Isn't it good to be like Dad? What happened to that whole story?

Your father was a good man, Galen's grandmother said. He worked hard all his life.

Yeah, we know, Helen said.

No you don't. You don't seem to understand. He provided for all of us.

I would rather not have been born, Helen said. Seriously. I would rather have skipped the entire miserable fuck-job of a life this has been.

Helen.

I'm serious. And I'm not putting up with your lies anymore. Why are you giving everything to Suzie? Why are you giving nothing to me, and nothing to Jennifer? I want to know, Mom.

Wow, Galen said. You can kick some ass when you get on a roll.

Galen's aunt punched him in the shoulder, hard. She punched him again, looking him right in the eyes, pure hatred, and punched him again. He tried to block, but she was fast, and she hit hard.

And then the strangest thing happened. Everyone looked away. No one said or did anything in response to the fact that his aunt had just punched him. His grandmother was humming to herself, looking down at her lap, and his mother was eating. Jennifer had crossed her arms and was looking down also. His aunt had gone back to eating. And what Galen realized was that this was the first time he'd been punched, but everyone else in this room must have been punched many times before. Or in his mother's case, maybe she had only been a witness to it, but a witness many times.

Galen's shoulder was throbbing, but he served himself some tuna casserole and tried to eat a couple bites. The sound of the fire in the stove, popping of coals. The sounds of chewing and swallowing, wet and amplified. The taste of salt.

Well, he said. I guess this is who we are.

Would you like some more casserole, Mom? his mother asked.

Thank you, yes. This is very good.

Galen's mother made a show of serving the casserole, raising the spoon high. Tomorrow we'll have your chicken and dumplings, Mom. That will be such a treat.

Galen could see his mother was the reconstructor of worlds. That was her role. When all fell apart, she stepped in and made time move again.

Tomorrow we can take a walk down at Camp Sacramento, she said.

Oh, that will be nice, his grandmother said.

I'm still waiting for an answer, Mom, Helen said.

Would you like some wine, Mom? Galen's mother asked.

Yes please.

Galen's mother stood and turned to the counter beside the stove. There was no space in this room. The five of them bunched around three sides of a tiny old table that was built into the wall, covered in a yellow plastic tablecloth. The walls uneven planks painted white. A single bare bulb with a chain. The floor a faded brown linoleum. The stove like a furnace. All their faces wet with sweat.

Galen's mother opened a bottle of white wine, Riesling, and the smell brought Galen instantly back. She poured glasses for herself and her mother and didn't offer to anyone else. The two of them drank and ate while Galen and the mafia watched, and Galen wondered why they were all together here.

What's the point of trying to be a family? he asked. Why are we doing it?

Galen's mother sighed and downed the rest of her glass, then refilled it. Galen's grandmother was staring at her own wine with a kind of wonder. She had rested it, nearly empty, on the table, just beyond her plate. The stem between two fingers, she was swirling it gently, her hand facing downward, open, as if she were waving her palm over something, as if the table were a looking glass and the wine upon it a kind of golden key. She looked mesmerized, her blue eyes wet and large, her lips moving slightly, as if she were reciting some invocation, something from long ago, something none of the rest of them would understand. She seemed about to announce something, and this was what kept the rest of them silent.

The bare bulb and its harsh light made it seem that if you removed his grandmother, you'd have to cut her from the fabric of the world and there'd be a hole left. Each of them felt that way to Galen, as if all were two-dimensional, flattened, and lodged in place. Jennifer with her arms still folded, looking down, unmoving, stationary. His mother with deeper lines around her mouth than he had noticed before, as if her lips were separate from the rest of her face, something added. Her eyes buried in sockets too large. The waves of her hair something sculpted and not attached. She looked fabricated, put together in pieces, invented.

Galen felt the unreality of her, felt it for the first time as something immediate and undeniable. She raised her glass again to her lips, but even that movement was jointed. The world put together with some kind of ratcheting action, each piece pulled into place under tension, all of it threatening to snap.

Galen wanted to leave. He wanted to get away from this table. This table felt extremely dangerous. He understood now that what held his family together was violence. But he was locked here, glued in place, unable to move. He could only watch, and the only movement was his mother's glass, and his grandmother's glass and palm moving in its slow circles, and the wavering of the light.