Story Girl (19 page)

“Piss on the leprechaun,” my father spat.

I reminded myself to find the humor in the insanity, because it often had the effect of an antihistamine.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not assembling that damn thing.”

“You don’t have to, Dad.” I hadn’t spoken for a while, and my booze breath surprised me.

“If I never see another shitty Home Depot, I’ll be a happy man.”

“Luke and I will do it. We already said we would.”

“You don’t know
how
to assemble it. It’s a big shed, Tracy.”

“I’m sure we can figure it out.”

“You’ve never hammered a nail in your life.”

“It’s not rocket science.” I was sorry as soon as I’d said it, and watched as he gripped the wheel for dear life.

“The instructions are never right. You always need to make adjustments. And there’s always some bloody important piece missing.”

“A screw loose?” I asked.

“Every time I turn around there’s another home and garden center going up. Fucking cock-eyed shed.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t want that damn thing going up at all. Not at all.”

“Well then, don’t put it up.”

“Your mother will be miserable if it’s not set up just exactly so.”

“Then let her assemble it. If she’s miserable about it, then that’s her business.”

“Believe me, it’s my business if your mother’s miserable.”

“Didn’t you enjoy the party at all?” I asked.

“That’s not the point. We already have a shed – a perfect shed.”

I turned around and looked at my mother crunched into the corner of the backseat. Her face was criss-crossed with the gentle shadows of the trees we passed. She looked almost angelic; I pretended she was a sweet little cherub sneaking a break from her crazy day job as my mother.

“Anything bigger will crowd the whole place, ruin the light, and destroy my vegetables.”

“Dad, it’s almost midnight. We can’t keep talking about the shed.”

I couldn’t believe the amount of struggle that occurred over such trivial matters. My parents were the Masters of the Mundane and I was once again confined in their Realm of Humdrum.

I desperately wanted James and our impressive struggles against the world. But he was dead to me now – or at least in the process of dying.

“What are we going to do?”

“For the love of world peace, Dad – don’t put up that blasted shed. If it’s causing you this kind of anguish, just return it and they’ll replace it with a store credit. You can get a couple of those plastic gnomes you like so much and just stick them somewhere.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No. I’m just saying return the stupid thing.”

“It’s not
his
thing to return.”

The voice was like a hot poker and I jerked against my seatbelt – sleeping beauty had definitely flown the coop.

“It’s
ours
,” my mother said. “Plus, this new shed is a thousand times better. It will probably even increase our property value.”

My father stared so hard into the rearview mirror that I was certain we’d drive right into the ditch.

“It’s nicer wood, Herb – doesn’t look as cheap.” Her voice had turned steady and methodical – the way it always did when she was set on getting her way.

“Doug Branton next door put up something similar, and he did all the labor himself. He had no help at all. It only took him a day – one day. I never heard a single complaint out of him, and I was in the backyard the whole time.”

I could see the life force leaving my father, and wondered if my mother was really that determined to get us killed in a head-on collision.

“We haven’t even seen the shed, Joanne. Why don’t we wait and see it before we make any rash decisions.” He sounded like the lead negotiator in a hostage crisis.

“It’s
new
– it’s got to be better. That old one’s had to contend with the weather.”

“But I’ve stained it, Joanne. It’s weather-proofed.”

“I have
seen the flyer
for the new one, Herb.”

Quibbling over a garden shed is probably something that James and I would have never done – if given the chance. We’d be satisfied arguing over the grand unifying theories of the cosmos.

I turned down my parents’ banter and watched the future images from a life I’d never have: James and I were doing yoga on the beach, eating pizza in the tub, napping in a hollowed-out tree, planting flowers with soiled hands, philosophizing in a pagoda, and marching for peace in San Francisco.

We could never do such things now – not after tonight – but maybe he would do them with
her
, whoever the hell she happened to be. She was probably better behaved than me – far more refined, polite, and deferential – less of a mouth on her, and far less threatening to his manhood. But he’d soon tire of such monotonous deference and would want his little firecracker back.

I could never go back.

We finally pulled into the driveway of our house. My mother went straight to bed, but my father walked alone into the dark of the backyard. I watched him from my bedroom window. The porch light illuminated a skeptical man, hands on hips, staring at the perfect patch of space separating his cucumber garden and tomato vines from the current shed.

I watched my father but thought of James – allowed myself to conjure his hands and shiny purple hair.

I turned my phone back on, and was delighted to see that wonderful blinking light – the one informing me that I had at least one new message and therefore some semblance of a life on this strange and lonely planet.

Surely it was James, and he would admit to me that he’d only been kidding about the date. That of course he would never do that to me – to us. He would tell me that he’s just scared because he is, in fact, crazy about me. And I would call him back and admit that I’m scared too because marriage and love only hurts us in the end. I would tell him all about the proof I was gathering out here in the mid-west, the place of my earliest impressions.

I called my voicemail and listened as the lovely lady told me that I had one new message. Of course I did. I smiled and braced myself for the miraculous sound of his voice.

But it wasn’t James at all, and I hadn’t even prepared myself for such a crushing possibility.

It was Lila.

Lila – who works as a receptionist for the B-movie production group known as Bloodhound – my last hope for redemption. She apologized that it had taken so long to get back to me and admitted that the only reason she was calling at all was because she’d accidentally doodled over my email address – and my cell number was the only contact still visible.

Lila went on to say that
Morbid City
was not a proper fit for them at this particular time. She reminded me that such opinions are highly subjective and that she and the entire team at Bloodhound wished me luck elsewhere.

And she said all this with the most chipper of tones.

It was time to admit that loss was very real, and that I’d always been surrounded by it. It was like an abyss, teasing you towards it but still patient – simply waiting for the inevitable fall.

chapter
27

T
HE NEXT MORNING
started with a literal bang.

It sounded like someone had shot a gun in the basement. My father was screaming something about roots and pipes. I groggily walked down the stairs in a jogging outfit and my fuzzy featureless Tweety Bird slippers.

My mother handed me a mug of coffee, “Your grandmother is here.”

Grandma Mary was my father’s very spunky mother – the only member of my family that I truly considered cool.

“Why didn’t she come for the anniversary?” I asked.

“Because she’s a very wise woman, but her official story is that she had car trouble.”

“She drives a new Camry.”

“Exactly.”

“Where is she?”

“Helping your father with the plumbing.”

My mother placed a large stack of French toast in front of me, “Try the nectarine-chunk syrup – it’s homemade.”

“Who made it?” I asked.

“I did – who else ever would?” She seemed to genuinely resent the fact that no one else under her roof was interested in making nectarine-chunk syrup.

I wondered if James had slept with his date. Maybe they’d even read my script in bed – making fun of how blindingly awful it was. It didn’t matter because from this day forward I would never write another word again. It was simply time to do something else. Be someone else –
with someone else
.

My grandmother walked into the kitchen, kissed me on the cheek, and sat down across from me, “The washing machine is full of poop.”

“What?” my mother asked.

“Well – poopy water is more accurate.”

“How?”

“Blown pipes – tree roots got at them.”

“Maybe we should call Kyle,” I said, looking at my mother.

“The problem is with the
pipe
, Tracy – not the machine.”

My father’s curses rang through the house and I felt awful for him. In the space of a day, his life had become consumed with unwanted sheds, ruined pipes, and shitty washers.

My grandmother turned to me, “Your sister tells me you’re a lesbian.”

“Not true, Granny.”

“Too bad,” she said.

“Please, Mary – Jenny said no such thing. Try to be appropriate.” My mother was back on autopilot.

“I wouldn’t know appropriate if it sat on my face.”

I covered my giggles with both hands.

“So how have you been, kid?” she asked.

“Just turned thirty. Not so good.”

“Add forty years and get back to me.”

“I guess so, Grandma.”

“Call me Mary.”

“Really?”

“Yes – really.”

“She should call you Grandma,” my mother said.

“Call me Mary,” she whispered.

“Okay, Mary.”

“Oh my God, I forgot. Wait right there.” She rushed out of the kitchen, and even though she was almost three-quarters of a century old, her breezy attitude easily translated to her feet. She returned with a white paper bag and placed it on the table in front of me, “Open it.”

It was a book entitled,
The Second Sex
, by Simone de Beauvoir.

“A feminist classic,” she said.

My mother retrieved a cloth from the sink, and began wiping the sticky dribble from the mouth of the syrup bottle, “I can’t believe you’re encouraging her in such a way.”

“Encouraging her to find the truth.”

“What truth is that?” my mother asked.

I shoved a large slice of French toast into my mouth in an effort to stifle myself.

“Truth is personal. Isn’t that why you’re a writer, Tracy? Trying to express yourself?”

“I’m really not much of a writer.”

“Nonsense – I’ve read your poetry.”

“You’re not helping.”

My father walked into the kitchen with very long and very soiled tube socks on his arms, all the way up to his elbow.

“No one can use the washing machine today – or the toilets. You’ll have to go to Seven Eleven or drive over to Jenny’s hotel.”

“What’s wrong with the toilets?” I asked.

“They’ll continue to flood the washer.”

“Just scoop out the poop, Herb – and call the root people,” my mother said. “And then after that you can deal with the new shed.”

“But Joanne – ”

“I want the new one up. Luke’s got all the pieces.”

My father’s expression changed and he had to wrap himself up in a hug – I assumed he forgot about the shitty socks on his arms.

“Go take those reeking stockings off, rinse out that machine, and wash yourself with a decent soap.”

I had to wonder what other kind she thought he’d wash himself with.

My father left the room with my mother hot on his heels.

I turned to Mary, “Thanks for the book.”

“You’re looking really good, Tracy.”

“Really? I just plucked ten more grey hairs yesterday.”

“No, it’s not about any of that – it’s about you, your energy. You remind me of myself a little.”

“When you were my age?”

“No – now.”

Mary’s hair was short and silver, and she was wearing a navy blue blouse that was two sizes too big and covered in homemade bronze stars; long orange fish earrings swam whenever she spoke. She seemed much younger than her actual years and was filled with an odd light, almost extraterrestrial – she reminded me of Shirley MacLaine.

I could hear cursing and banging coming from the laundry room – it sounded like he was actually washing himself inside the machine. Maybe my mother had muscled him in and sprinkled him with Tide.

“They don’t share a bedroom anymore,” I said. “Dad lives in the basement like some sort of troll.”

“Your grandfather lived in the basement – after his accident. It was cooler for him down there.”

“Do you miss him?” I asked.

“Yep,” she said, and looked away. I thought I saw her wince.

“So what should we do today?” she asked. “Sky-diving, dirt-biking, strip club – what?”

“Really?”

“Why not?”

I didn’t answer.

“Because I’m old? No. Aging has been very beneficial to me.”

“In what way?”

“Other people’s opinions matter less and less.”