Still Life with Tornado(70)

When none of us responded to this story, the driver clammed up. He’d worked for his tip. He’d told his crocodile stories. He’d told us about the windmill. Now he shut up and moved into the fast lane and I could see the signs for the airport showing fewer and fewer kilometers and I could see planes in the air—taking off and landing. And I thought about how badly Bruce’s jaw must hurt and how badly my sunburn hurt.

Stop signs in Mexico read ALTO. That’s what I wanted to scream. ?ALTO! ?ALTO! ?ALTO! But I didn’t scream anything. I went to the airport, stood in the security line with my quiet family, saw a girl wearing a T-shirt that said ALL MY FAVORITE RAPPERS ARE DEAD. Saw another girl in a T-shirt that said I’M IN CANCúN, BITCHES.

After security, Mom took Bruce and me to buy souvenirs from the trip. Bruce dug into the pocket of his shorts. He said, “I already have a souvenir.” He held up his tooth.

“I want this,” I said, holding up a toy cube that unfolds that said ?Viva la Muerte! on the package. The cube was magical—like a Mexican puzzle. It folded and unfolded in different directions and on each panel there was a different drawing by José Guadalupe Posada. The poster next to the display said that Posada lived from 1852 to 1913 and was well-known for his representations of Mexican life and people. It said he was prolific. It also said he lived in poverty his whole life and was buried in a grave that eventually was claimed by someone else, at which time his skeleton was removed and tossed into a mass grave alongside other poor skeletons.

The pictures on the cube game were all skeletons. Dancing skeletons. A skeleton playing a small Mexican guitar. Skeletons at war. Skeletons in love.

Mom said no at first. “Too morbid,” she said.

I begged and explained the artistic relevance. She bought it.

? ? ?

When we boarded the plane, Mom said I was supposed to sit with Dad and she would sit with Bruce.

“I want to sit with Bruce!” I said. “That way you and Dad can sit together.”

“I’m sitting with Bruce,” she said.

It didn’t make any sense to me then.

It was the beginning of what I would eventually end.

The answers were never on the airplane. The answers were right there in Dad’s fist. In Bruce’s jaw. In Mom’s eyes. The answer was there. I didn’t see it because how do you even guess that kind of shit about your own family? How do you even guess that you will be the last to know about everything? How do you even guess that your parents were stupid enough to build a thirteen-million-peso windmill for people who would never be able to use it?

The flight home—Mexico Day Seven—was the last time I would see Bruce until I was sixteen years old. Dad didn’t say a word the whole day. Not in the plane, not in baggage claim in Philly airport, not in the taxi on the way back to our house, not even when I showed him my magic José Guadalupe Posada Day of the Dead cube.

I didn’t want to talk to him really. Not after what he did to Bruce.

I wished he would have been eaten by a crocodile in Mexico—a white cross on the side of the road.

I was ten. This was a reasonable wish.





Be Reasonable



Whatever is going on in the house sounds a little like Dad getting eaten by a crocodile. He’s not fighting the police or anything, but there’s a lot of noise. I think they’re moving the furniture back into place.

“I don’t think he can get arrested for wrecking his own house,” I say.

Bruce says, “I told them what’s going on.”

“I can’t believe you went in there,” Mom says.

I can’t believe I went in there either. This is going to sound crazy, but I think I went in so Dad would finally hit me. So I wasn’t left out. So I wasn’t the last to know.

Bruce says, “Let’s go in and talk. If we do it with them here, then it will go on record, they can arrest him, and we can get on with our day.” Mom sighs. Bruce hugs her lightly.

We find Dad and the two cops putting things back together. One cop is taking a picture of the broken kitchen window. The other one is talking to Dad about his temper. He asks him if he’s ever hit Mom or us. Dad lies. Dad says no.

Bruce says, “He’s lying.”

“What the f*ck are you even here for?” Dad says. He almost growls. “I kicked you out six years ago for what you did to your sister.”

“Don’t believe a thing that man says,” Mom says. She’s ER-night-nurse calm—she knows the cops and the cops know her.

The adults move into the kitchen to talk. I sit on the couch and hear random words. Pack. Paperwork. Divorce. Sarah. Safe. Dad paces with his arms crossed, taking advice from the police officer to stay quiet and let his wife talk. I can see him only when he passes by the door. He doesn’t notice that I’m sitting here. Mom stays in clear view of the doorway. I think she does it on purpose so I can see her. She is expressive and stands as if she were dealing with a hospital family who needs assurance. Out. One day at a time. Pack. Safe. Sarah. Lies. Bruce. Lies. This is the Mom Earl knew.

Dad sounds like a crocodile. “You can’t kick me out of my own house!”

More muttering. More calm talking from the police, from Mom, and even from Bruce. Ruined the house. We were outside. Sarah’s owl. Safe. Sarah.

“I didn’t hit her!” Dad says.