Triangles (23 page)

Since when has that concerned you?

Christian was raised Methodist and

attended church regularly when

we met. But as the years progressed 428/881

and life got busier, Sundays began

to blur into every other day

and he made time for services less

and less. He slammed the door

on religion completely when a hit-

and-run driver took out his mom

in a crosswalk, a few weeks before

Shelby was born. I haven’t heard

him mention salvation since.

Now, he says,
I’ll pray for you.

Cinches tight the cloak of silence

I know so well. Shane recognizes

it too.
Well, Dad, if you really
believe in God, you’ll quit worrying
about me. Because if there
is
a God,
he wants me this way. This is the way
I was born. This is the way he made
me. You, on the other hand, weren’t
born with a whiskey bottle. Maybe
drinking isn’t technically a sin,
but the way it makes you treat

your family surely must be. Don’t
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bother praying for me. Pray for
yourself. He leaves before he can
see Christian’s eyes fill with tears, to overflow. He leans his head into

his hands. Could he be praying?

WHEN HE LOOKS UP

His eyes are dry. Mushroomed.

Tinted crimson. But totally dry,

tear quota used up for the day.

I want to hug him. Instead,

I settle for, “Maybe you should

go back. To church, I mean.”

He flushes.
What are you

saying? That I need saving?

Or God’s forgiveness, maybe?

“I didn’t say—or imply—any

of that. All I meant was, it used

to be important to you, a source

of comfort. I hate to see you

hurting this way. And I wish you

could reconcile with your son.”

Fine. Sorry. Shouldn’t have

snapped at you. But faith is

a personal thing. I don’t even

know if I own faith anymore.

I think God has deserted me.

No, worse. He kicked me after

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he knocked me down. Okay,

I haven’t been perfect. But who
deserves what he’s handed me?

“I think you mean us, right?

Last I looked, we were in this

together. That hasn’t changed,

at least, not for me. You have

pulled away. That is obvious

to everyone, especially Shane.

Can’t you see how he’s hurting?

Is it really because he came out—

told the truth about such an integral piece of who he is? I guess

you don’t have to accept it.

But gay, straight, or ambiguous,

he is still your son. Would

you really push him out of

your life? For any reason at all?”

He stares at me silently for

a good long while. Pours

another coffee, plus. Finally,

he answers with three one-syllable

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words, not the ones I want—or

expect—to hear.
I don’t know.

BY NATURE

I am Earth Mother.

Solid. Placid.

Caregiver.

Peacekeeper.

Sometimes, I’m told,

I become Wood.

Hard. Smooth.

Immovable.

Predictable.

I also have Water days.

Cool. No, cold.

Conflicting currents.

Eddy. Whirlpool.

But at this moment,

I am Fire.

Rash. Brash.

Indomitable.

Unstoppable.

Words rage up in me.

Flare. Burn.

Scalding.

Blistering.

Shoot from my mouth,

dragon flames.

“You bastard.

Shane is your son.

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Like it or not, he always

will be. Damn it, you used to

love him so much. What the fuck

happened?” How can love disappear?

LOVE DISAPPEARS

Like raindrops pelting

lake water. Splash by splash,

spattering concentric rings,

small

reminders

left upon the storm-mirrored

plane. And in the geometry,

integral to the pattern,

a hint

of

immortality—the recurring

journey of the Genesis sea,

earth to sky, and back again,

what

was

and what will be, inextricably

married. The promise

of tomorrow, buried in

once

upon

a time.

Andrea

Buried in Books

That’s where Harley’s been since

her blowup with Brianna. She even

quit exercising, and her moping

around is getting to me. Which is

why Holly and I planned a little

surprise for the girls. Hopefully,

it will lead to reconciliation, rather than all-out war. I’m pretty sure

Harley will balk if I tell her where we’re going—even without

the information that her “former

BFF” is coming along. So I grab

her swimsuit, pack it with mine,

a couple of towels, and a healthy

lunch. Still liking how the size

eights are fitting. Think I’ll leave the hot dogs alone. I find Harley

where I figured I would—in the old

recliner, nose-deep in some dystopian tale. I tap her shoulder. “Let’s go.” 437/881

The book falls back against

her face and her eyes roll up—

just barely—over the cover.

Where are we going?
she mumbles from behind the chunky sheaf of pages.

“Never mind. Just come on.

You can bring your book.”

Harley follows me dutifully out

to the car. I start to throw the beach bag in the back, and it hits me

that I forgot sunscreen. “Be right

back.” I rush into the house—it’s hot in the car—and as I come inside,

the telephone is ringing. I let it go to voicemail, run for the SPF 30.

But as I start toward the door,

I can hear the voice on the answering machine.
Robin. From the Atlantis
the other night…
Like I wouldn’t recognize the accent …
enjoyed

talking with you and wondered if
you’d like to go to brunch with me …

A familiar horn honks outside. Harley is losing patience. I don’t pick up but do pause long enough to write

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down the number he leaves.

Not one hundred percent certain

I’ll call him back. Men are distractions.

Then again, he was a pleasant enough distraction. Guess I’ll think about it.

I START THE CAR

Head north, toward Reno.

Harley asks again,
Where

are we going?
Adds,
Mother?

She saw the beach bag and

sunscreen. Might as well tell

her. “Wild Waters.” But now

I detour off the main highway,

into Washoe Valley.
Why are

we going this way, then? Mom?

Only one reason why we would.

She has to know. So, “We’re picking up Holly. And Trace. And Brianna.”

No way! Why would you do

that to me? I’m not talking to

Bri, and you damn well know it.

“Excuse me? You did not just cuss

at me, did you?” She rarely even

raises her voice. “Unacceptable.”

Sorry,
she says. But she is fuming.

This is a dirty trick.
We skirt the serpentine edge of Washoe Lake, 440/881

little more than a shallow

silver waterhole this time

of year. Still, the landscape

is serene. As we maneuver the curves, steeped in silence, I can feel Harley’s anger ease. “You and Bri have been friends for a really long time. True friends don’t let other people come between them, especially not guys. Face it.

You’re miserable without her. I’m

betting she’s miserable without you too. Find a way to work things out.”
Whatever
is what she says, but I know she’s thinking it over.

When we get to Holly’s, I give three short honks before I open the door

and am sucked into a vacuum of early August heat. Usually, the weather

tempers by now. But today, mid-

morning, no animal moves and no

bird flies. I leave the car running, air-conditioning on. “We’ll hurry,”

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I promise. “If you wouldn’t mind,

though, I’d appreciate you getting

in the backseat.” I’m pretty sure

she
does
mind, and also relatively certain she’ll honor my request.

SHE DOES, OF COURSE

Holly and kids are ready to go,

so we return to the car in short

order. Harley is in the backseat,

scrunched up against the passenger

side door. She makes a point of

keeping her face against the window while Brianna and Trace climb in

beside her. Bri pushes her brother

into the middle position.
Hey,

he complains.
Chill, would you?

You chill,
says Brianna.
But first,
move over. You’re squashing me.

She gives another shove and Harley

snaps,
Both of you are squashing me.

Please stop bickering!
says Holly.

I’ve got a major headache.

I don’t have one now, but if the day progresses like this, I definitely will.

“Ibuprofen in my purse, water in back.” 443/881

I turn onto the main drag, behind

an eightyish woman, snoozing along in a big Pontiac. “What’s up with Mikayla?

She didn’t want to come?” And now

the guy behind me lays on his horn.

Mikki is grounded again,
says Brianna.

Got caught sneaking out the window.

Yeah,
says Trace.
She really ought to
get a life besides screwing Dylan.

Must you air all our dirty laundry?

asks Holly, chasing Advil with Dasani.

Not all. Only the stuff with used
condoms in the pocket,
jokes Trace.

That makes us all laugh, even Holly.

At least until the guy behind us honks again.
Stupid noise!
Holly turns, flips the guy the bird.
Big beep, little penis.

Harley gasps. I wish I could see

the color of her face right about now.

Mom!
exclaims Brianna. But she 444/881

is still laughing. Like the rest of us.

ICE BROKEN

I concentrate on driving

(thank God Old Woman

has turned off and Pickup

Dude passed me, even if

it
was
on a blind curve.)

Holly reclines her seat,

much to Harley’s chagrin

(she doesn’t comment,

but the huff is audible),

closes her eyes to the light.

I can’t help but listen in

to the conversation behind

me (as opposed to an actual

argument, though it moves in

that direction), in snippets:

Brianna:
I don’t want to

fight anymore, okay?

Harley:
What would you say

if I kissed your brother?

Trace:
Hey, wait just a sec.

Bri:
I’d ask why you didn’t

have better taste in guys.

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Trace:
Hey, wait just a sec.

Brianna:
I’m really sorry. I swear,
I only like Chad as a friend.

Harley:
I like Trace as a friend.

Doesn’t mean I’d kiss him.

Brianna:
I only let Chad kiss me
to know what it’s like. I figured
since he’s older, he’d be good.

Trace:
Kinda too much info.

Harley:
So … was he good?

Brianna:
I’m not sure what

good is, but if that was it,

I’d hate to know what bad is.

Trace:
I know what bad is.

Harley:
What wasn’t good?

Did he have yucky breath?

Brianna:
No. It was just kind of
icky wet, and we crashed teeth

together. And then, his tongue …

Trace:
Enough. Holy crow! Way

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