Down With the Shine (2 page)

FIVE MONTHS LATER

I
t had been Dylan’s idea to crash Michaela Gordon’s party. She’d spent weeks trying to talk me into it last year. I told her no way, no how, over my dead body.

“Next year then, Lennie,” she’d said. “You’ve got a year to prepare yourself, so no excuses.”

“Not gonna happen,” I’d replied with a roll of my eyes.

And yet here I am, one year later, filling a grocery bag with four mason jars full of my uncles’ infamous bathtub moonshine, which Dylan promised would be the magic ticket into Michaela Gordon’s almost equally infamous back-to-school Labor Day party.

It’s not like I think doing this is gonna bring Dyl back. Or that she’s peering down from heaven, cheering me on or something cheesy like that.

It’s more like once you see your best friend chopped up
into pieces, it changes you. It makes you reexamine your own life and choices. And after five months of this type of introspection, I’ve decided that I’m sick of taking the path of least resistance, sick of trying to stay out of trouble when it always finds me in the end anyway, and sick of letting assholes like Michaela Gordon tell me I’m not good enough to play beer pong with their pals.

To put it simply: I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore. So yeah, I’m going to the party to fulfill a dead girl’s wish. But that’s not all of it. I’m also going to that party to

FUCKING

OWN

IT.

But first I have to get my uncles out of the way.

Unlike most responsible adults, my uncles wouldn’t care about me going to a “my parents aren’t home so let’s drink till we puke” type party or even coming home from that party totally wasted. They would, however, object to me dipping into the moonshine supply for the purpose of handing out free samples.

That’s ’cause making moonshine is the way my uncles earn their living. It’s a family business, actually. They can’t put a sign out front, due to their business being the type of thing that can get you sent to jail, but if they did have
one it would say: Hinkton Family Moonshine: Brewing It in Bathtubs and Selling It Out of the Living Room Since 1923.

I realize this sounds sketchy, and you wouldn’t know it by the way we live, but business is good. The same people who call us trash behind our backs come knocking at our door with wads of twenties in their fists. You can see the horror on their faces when they’re invited in and told to take a seat. And when they finally leave with their brown paper bag clutched in their hands, it’s clear they’re thinking that Jet and Rod and Dune are more crooked than the falling-down house we live in and as hard to judge as their dogs who, depending on their mood, might lick your hand or bite it. Yet despite all that, most of them come back for more.

So I understand why slipping a few free jars to my friends is a big no-no. It’s a rule I never considered breaking before because when I get in trouble with my uncles, I don’t get some sissy punishment like getting sent to my room. My uncles always said that if I’d been born a boy, they woulda beaten the hell out of me, but seeing as how I was a girl and more easily broken, they instead punished me by locking me out of the house until they got over being angry at me for whatever I had done. I just hope that this time I don’t make them so mad they change the locks completely.

They’ll be real pissed at me, that much is certain. Not only am I taking the shine, but I’m also using one of their favorite things in the world to betray them: Dinty Moore beef stew.

Inspiration struck this morning as I eyed the stacks and stacks of Dinty Moore covering almost every inch of counter space. My uncles had bought twenty cases off a friend of theirs a few days ago. Half the stuff in our house, from the TV to the toilet paper, fell off the back of a truck and was then sold to us at bargain-basement prices. When I was seven years old, I was terrified of driving behind trucks for fear that big leather couches like the ones my uncles had just gotten would come flying out and smash me to bits.

Now I wander into the living room, where the uncs are watching the three flat-screens stuck to the wall.
Die Hard
, SportsZone, and some Food Network show play on the respective screens.

I flop down between Uncle Rod and Uncle Jet and watch with them for a little bit. After we finish cheering as Bruce Willis shoots up a bunch of bad guys, I say in what I hope is a casual tone, “So that’s a shit ton of beef stew you got in the kitchen. Which one of you is gonna eat the most of it?”

This seemingly innocent question is all it takes to set
off a series of boasts, put-downs, and finally challenges to decide once and for all which of the Hinkton boys can put away the most Dinty Moore in one sitting.

I reluctantly agree to officiate the contest.

One hour later, Uncle Dune is in the lead by two cans. This isn’t a huge surprise. All three of my uncles shop at the Big and Tall store, but Dune’s the only one who has to duck when walking through your average doorway.

“Lennie!” he bellows, even though I’m standing right in front of him. “Make me another.”

Uncle Jet and Uncle Rod, refusing to fall further behind, shovel their last bites into their mouths and shove their bowls at me as well. “Mine too.”

In the kitchen, I open and upend cans thirty-eight, thirty-nine, and forty. The stew plops into the bowls with a wet and rather unappetizing slurping noise. I pull the last three melatonin pills from my pocket and stir them in. I’ve already given each of my uncles the maximum dose of sleeping pills, but the melatonin is natural so I’m pretty sure a little extra won’t cause them to OD.

After a few minutes in the microwave, I put the bowls on the sheet pan I’m using as a makeshift serving tray and carry them back out to my uncles.

I gasp in shock when I turn the corner and see all three of them slumped sideways, fast asleep. I mean, yeah,
that’s what I was going for, but I didn’t expect it to work so quickly or so well, and I feel an unexpected twinge of guilt.

Sure, the uncs may not be the most nurturing people out there, but when my dad disappeared and Mom made it clear she was pretty much useless, they stepped in and took care of me. Of course, you could argue that I’ve paid them back by mostly staying out of trouble and keeping the complaints to a minimum. I never whined when they skipped out on school events or protested when they thought it was funny to play connect the dots on my arms when I had chicken pox or sulked when I had to remind them it was my birthday. I always sort of understood that my uncles were doing the best they could. Now, I can only hope they extend the same courtesy to me.

I grab a pile of blankets and take a few minutes to tuck them in. I also check their pulses, just to make sure I didn’t overdo it on the pills. When I get to Uncle Jet, his eyes flutter open.

“Lennie,” he rasps.

Even in his sleepy state, I can hear the threat in that one word and I take a step back.

“Dead,” he says, and then repeats it so the message is clear. “Dead.” His eyes close again and he begins to snore.

Feeling reassured that my uncles will survive the stew
incident, although considerably less certain that I will, I tip-toe upstairs to get ready for the party.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in clothes that don’t have a noticeable Dinty Moore stink to them, and I’ve added some pink stuff to my lips and cheeks and sparkly goop to my eyelids. After running my fingers through my half-curled, but mostly just tangled hair, I decide that I am officially as prettied up as possible.

Still, I can’t stop myself from taking one last detour—this time crossing the hall into my mother’s bedroom.

“Mom,” I call, tapping on the door. I don’t really expect an answer. The knock is more of an announcement that I’m coming in.

As I crack the door open, I am instantly hit with the stench of stale cigarette smoke.

Mom’s in her usual place at the window, her head and shoulders leaning out into the warm night air. Everything about her looks washed out, from the mess of ash blond hair spilling down her back to the gray robe wrapped around her body. It’s like she’s trying to disappear into the cloud of smoke that always surrounds her.

Walking closer, I notice that she’s sucking on the last quarter inch of a cigarette. That’s my mom—so dedicated to each cigarette she’ll even smoke the filter.

“Mom,” I say again.

There is no reaction to indicate she’s heard me. All interactions with my mother are like talking with someone over a bad long-distance connection. There are extended lapses between responses, and some things get lost entirely. As has been my habit for years, I start to mentally count:
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

“Huh?” My mother mumbles at last. Her head slowly turns in my direction, right as I reach thirty Mississippi.

Her eyes never meet mine, but fixate on a point somewhere beyond my left shoulder. Throughout our conversation they will undoubtedly dart between that point and a similar one hovering in the vicinity of my right ear.

“Got any plans tonight?” I ask.

With one fluid movement, she puts out the burnt stub of her cigarette in the Niagara Falls souvenir mug on the windowsill. I watch the cigarette butt smolder among the dozen or so other stubs, while she taps a fresh one from her pack and lights it.

She smokes.

Meanwhile, I count.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

She finishes that cigarette and immediately lights yet another. I’d say my mom smokes like a chimney, but I’m pretty sure even a chimney observing this behavior would be like, “Whoa, lady, take it easy.”

Out of all my uncles, Dune is the one who makes a
special effort to look after Mom. He talks to her even when she doesn’t answer. Brings her special treats that she’ll only take one or two bites of. One time I asked him why, and he explained how way back when they were little kids, Mom and Dune were the youngest two in the family and were pretty tight. “Right up until she met your father, I woulda said we were best friends,” he told me, sounding super sad and non-Dune-like. It’s always weird to hear about my mom from before. I’ve only known her this way, so I sometimes forget that she was once normal. Well, as normal as my family gets, anyway.

Thinking about all this stuff is depressing, so I go back to counting.

At fifty Mississippi there is still no answer, so I figure I might as well fill in the blanks for her.

“Staying in then, Mom? Well, I’m going out and wanted to know if you’d check on the uncs. They went a little overboard on the beef stew and I’m worried they might not be feeling so good.”

Mom sucks hard on her cigarette, then turns away from me to exhale a long plume of smoke out the window. When she turns back, she focuses on my face. It’s so strange to have her eyes on mine that I almost look away.

“You’re dressed as your father, in his boots made to walk over anyone who got in his way,” she says, in her
strange, high-pitched voice.

I look down at my feet, practically bare except for the few bits of leather winding between my toes and around the back of my heels. Then I look back up at Mom.

“Yeah, it’s a costume party,” I tell her. “One where you try to make it real hard for people to guess who you’re dressed as.”

“Anyone with eyes can see who you are.”

“Well, maybe I’ll get lucky and some eyes will fall out.”

Mom blows a mouthful of smoke up to the ceiling. “If you’re lucky.” Then she stands and marches toward me and for a moment I’m afraid of that lit cigarette in her hand. Not that she’s ever been violent—she usually goes out of her way to avoid me. But she’s being weirder than usual, and I have no idea how to predict her next move. So I take one step back and then another and another, until the wall is at my back and Mom is directly in front of me.

Her cigarette-free hand comes up and covers my heart. “I’m a part of you too, Lennie. You were both of ours, but then he took and I gave and you were left between us, but no longer quite of us.”

I am not really sure how to respond to this, but Mom doesn’t wait for an answer. She takes a step back and holds her cigarette between us, with the glowing red tip
pointed toward the ceiling. “Make a wish,” she says. As if it’s a birthday candle. Or a jar of shine and we’re doing my uncles’ toast.

I sigh. And then play along. “I wish you’d check on the uncles tonight while I’m gone.”

It’s like she doesn’t even hear me. “You get a chance to make a wish, Lennie, you ask to be bulletproof.” Her knuckles rap against the side of my head.

“Yeah, okay,” I answer, brushing away the cigarette ashes that were shaken loose onto my shoulder.

But Mom is already wafting past me, out of the room and down the hallway. A moment later, I hear the bathroom door clunk closed and the lock click into place.

“If you’re too busy, don’t worry about it,” I tell the empty room.

Clumping back downstairs, I try to recapture the earlier energy that had every bit of me buzzing in anticipation. Now I feel drained and can sense myself slipping back into the depressed, “I just want to be alone” mood that has been my default setting since Dyl’s death.

I need to get my head right. If I walk into that party looking like a kicked puppy, I’ll deserve every last bit of the abuse I’ll undoubtedly receive.

Trying to once more find the rage that has driven me this far, I pull out my cell phone and dial into my voice
mail. “You have no new messages. You have one saved message. To hear your saved message press four.”

I hit four.
Boop,
replies my phone. And then this:

“It’s Smith. I just wanted to call and say, to call you and tell you, that you should know, in case you don’t already . . . It shoulda been you, Cash. Not Dyl, but you. She didn’t deserve to go that way. She—” His voice breaks. “Fuck.”

That’s the end of the message. I replay it three times. Once to hear how Dylan’s twin brother carefully enunciates his words in the beginning, the way drunk people do when pretending they’re sober. Another time to hear the way he calls me Cash instead of Lennie, like the kids at school, never missing a chance to remind me who I came from. And finally so I can catch the sob at the very end that escapes before he can hang up the phone.