Rumble (21 page)

Nothing.
She doesn’t turn toward

me.
Would you please just take

me somewhere? Anywhere but here.

Would it do any good to say no?

I submit to her request. “Parental

problems?” I steer in the general

direction of town, hoping she has

a destination other than “anywhere”

in mind. “They seem to be in the air.”

Mom found out I didn’t spend

the night with Lainie. Now, she’ll

probably suspect I spent it with you.

I’m over eighteen, and technically

able to sleep with whomever I please.

She hasn’t played Mama in too many

years to think she can step in and

start orchestrating my life now. She

actually believes she can ground me!

“Maybe she’s feeling neglectful.

Anyway, her plan for total Alexa

domination didn’t work out so well.”

She half laughs.
As if. The worst

part was the names she called me.

Okay, it was probably the tequila

doing the screaming, but if anyone

else defamed me in such a fashion,

they’d be hearing from my lawyer.

The faux snooty tone of her voice

makes me smile. At least the drama

has become intentional. But now

I remember my original purpose,

and since the tear tap has emptied,

“So, where should I drop you off?”

I can almost hear her eyes filling

up again.
Drop me off? Can’t I

just hang out with you for a while?

No! No! No!

That’s what I want to say.

That’s what I need to say.

But what I actually do say

is, “I don’t know if that’s

such a good idea, Lex.”

Why not? No strings. I know

you’re still attached to Hayden,

but right now she’s busy chanting

liturgy and sipping God’s blood.

She’s got me there. Still,

“I was planning on going out

to my uncle’s shooting range

for a little target practice.”

Really? Cool! Will you teach me?

I’ve always wanted to learn.

I can’t believe she wants to go

with me. Hayden thinks firing

at bull’s-eyes is paper abuse.

“I don’t know . . .”

Please?
At my silence,

she amends,
Pretty please?

Oh, Why Not?

Truth be told, I’m sick

of spending weekends

mostly alone.

Anyway, it will give me

the chance to make

my intentions—

or lack thereof—

perfectly clear.

“Okay. I guess

you can come. But if

Uncle Jessie is around,

don’t be shocked

by his missing eye.

And if he hits the deck

at the sound of gunfire,

it’s the PTSD talking.

Iraq is responsible for both.”

Why does he own

a shooting range

if the noise freaks him out?

“You don’t know

much about soldiers,

do you? They’re all

about choking down fear.

That doesn’t stop

just because shrapnel

forces them home.

Uncle Jessie loves guns,

believe me, and even with one

eye gone, he’s a better shot

than most. But his brain

has been traumatized,

and what’s A-OK

one minute might

set him off the next.”

She thinks that over

silently and finally asks,

Have you ever seen him go off?

I could tell her

about the time some

guy fired a .50 BMG,

BLAM!
at the exact

same moment a helicopter

whoop-whoop
ed overhead.

Jessie nose-dived

into the dirt and I thought

he just might dig himself

underground, shoveling

with his forehead.

Or I could mention

a certain incident

involving an asshole

who refused to quit picking

on his son. Every time

the kid missed his shot,

the jerk-off dad bear-hugged

the boy into submission,

kicked his feet into a stance,

clamped his big old hands

around the smaller pair

and fired for him.

When the kid collapsed

in tears, his loving father

slapped the boy’s face

his nose and mouth ran red.

Until Jessie stormed across

the field and beat that guy

into a gooey pulp.

Later, after a night in jail,

he told how he’d seen

an Iraqi kid left faceless

by a hailstorm

of American bullets.

Some things drill right through

your skull,
he said,
and into your brain.

I Could Share Those Things

But I’d rather hold them inside

and skip explicit explanations

that might make her afraid of him.

“I’ve seen some things, but for

whatever reason, I happen to be

a calming influence, at least that’s

what my therapist calls me.

We’ve had late night calls from Quin—

that’s his girlfriend—telling us

he’s wigging out. If he’ll take

the phone, I can usually talk him

down.” Why couldn’t I do the same

for Luke? The sudden shadow darkens

my mood. Perhaps a change of subject

is in order. “I think we need to talk

about what happened the other night.

It was great and everything. . . .”

Was it ever. “But I feel like

I took advantage of you and—”

The volume of her sigh halts

my words midsentence. “What?”

Don’t you think I have a mind

of my own? You did
not
take

advantage of me. I wanted to be

with you. Look. Like I said, I know

you’re still with Hayden, and

I never asked for any sort of

commitment. It’s enough to spend

time with you, at least it’s enough

for now. The sex was amazing.

If you decided to pull over for

a quickie, I’d happily comply, but

it isn’t necessary, or why I’m here.

I love you, Matt, I do.
She pauses,

then laughs, staccato.
Pretty sure

there’s a Bible verse that says, “Love

is patient.” Dude, I’m the patient

love poster child. I figure if I wait

long enough, eventually you’ll get smart.

Her Forthrightness

Is bone-chilling,

yet also refreshing.

Communication?

This girl is not afraid

of the word, which makes

me wonder out loud,

“What
are
you afraid of?”

What?

“Are you afraid of anything?”

Well, sure. Everyone’s afraid

of something, aren’t they?

“Okay, so, like, what? Spiders?

Snakes? Chain-saw killers?”

She laughs again.
Dad killed

a chain saw once. Not pretty.

“Young woman, I do believe

you’re evading my question.”

She Sucks in a Serious Breath

Exhales slowly, as if expelling

the air compressed inside her secrets.

I’m not afraid of spiders or snakes.

I’m afraid of things I can’t see.

“You mean, like, gasses? Or all

the way down to the molecular level?”

Smart-ass. I mean like . . .

Have you ever felt something

brush by, but when you look

to see what, there’s nothing there?

“Uh, not really. Hey, are you going

all woo-woo on me or what?”

Never mind.
Her voice is heavy

with “pout.”
Sorry you asked.

“Oh, don’t be mad. I’ve never

experienced anything like that,

or if I did, my conscious self chose

to ignore it. I don’t like creepy shit.”

Me either, and that’s exactly

what I mean. I have experienced

it, on more than one occasion, and

my conscious self couldn’t ignore

the way it made me break out

in goose bumps and lifted the hair

on my arms. And the weirdest thing

was, I know exactly who it was.

Who? Damn, man, woo-woo squared.

“Really?” This is either obnoxiously

interesting or something I want

to know nothing about.
Really.

So, do I bite, or leave it there,

hoping it will go away? “Who?”

My father. He was killed when

I was a baby. I never knew him.

Killed?

That’s what I ask,

increduously, and, “Why

have I never heard this story?”

I’ve known Alexa

since fifth grade.

She shrugs.
It’s not

something that comes up

in conversation. Like I said,

I never knew him at all.

My mom remarried

when I was two, so Paul

has always been “Dad” to me.

“Hope this doesn’t sound

morbid, but what

happened to your father?”

Nothing too glamorous.

Wrong place, wrong time

to be buying liquor.

The store got robbed,

and he was caught

in the crossfire when

the guy behind the counter

pulled his own gun.

I turn off the highway,

onto the gravel road to Uncle

Jessie’s. The tires crunch

beneath us, the noise obvious

above our silent reflection.

Finally I ask, “So why

do you think your father

would come back to terrify you?”

I doubt that’s his goal, but I

can’t help being weirded out.

How often do dead people come

around to visit? Why would

he drop by? Great question.

Maybe it’s lonely wherever

your spirit goes when you die.

Maybe he wants company.

Or maybe he just wants me

to know he’s looking out for me.

“Would it make you feel better

to believe a dead someone

is looking out for you?”

Better than thinking he’s inviting

me to join him in the Great Beyond.

The Sun Showers

Have encouraged a number

of people to the outdoor range.

Small-caliber weapons crack

the air, while larger ones

thud and boom. I assess

Lex’s expression—fascination

and outright delight. This

could be a whole lot of fun.

We find an open target and

I demonstrate all the basics.

Safety first, of course—what

not
to do if you want to remain

unscathed. Then grip. Stance.

Aim. The kick surprises her at

first, the barrel’s awkward lift

making her miss the paper

completely the first shot or ten.

I show her how to compensate,

and we start again. Before long,

she’s hitting the target reliably,