Don't Kiss Me: Stories(20)

*



Sundrops, dollops of sun, your own collection of sunshine! In a bowl. If the bowl was a universe it’d be filled with suns. If I was a universe I’d be a universe that swallowed that bowl universe. My blood is a sunbeam. Who used to call them sundrops? My mother. Her mother? A mother of some sort. Emily is a mother, right? Right? There is her son, Gavin. Brock likes to call him Gayvin when we’re alone. Brock’s little mouth, that chute of ash. He’s volcanic! I spill sunbeams, I can’t help it. Ah, the rapture. I mean the wrapper! Its halfhearted struggle, its little voice. Like the squeak of an infant. Emily, blam! Shot out like I was the volcano. The doctor nearly dropped her. Should’ve used a net! Everyone laughed. Brock’s white white face. Me, an emptied bowl. Oh, Jim’s asleep. That wide wet mouth. That rubbery ring above his belt. I’ve imagined him and my daughter, what mother hasn’t? Brock always says, Soft in the stomach, soft in the heart. But I’ve seen him with Mitzi. Knuckles massaging her ears, little bits of hot dog to snuffle out of his palm. You’re a good girl, aren’t you? But was he asking Mitzi, or was he asking me? It’s simple: if you’ve already got one in your mouth, use the other cheek.

*



Mom. Mm? Emily’s knuckle gathering up the yellowed glistening pocket at the corner of her mother’s mouth. A little sunshine for you, sweets. Yes, thank you. And smeared it onto her skirt. When Gavin was a baby she’d often wonder if her clothes were held together with his saliva. Her shoulder a collection of glistening webs. Drying into armor. Look at him now, a person like she was a person. Songs with violins made her sad, she’d once climbed out her window to make love to a boy under her father’s beloved willow tree, the smell of onions always reminded her of the summer she nearly drowned. What were Gavin’s violins, his willow, his onions? But that could never be known. She hadn’t even told Jim about the willow, and what was the point of mentioning the onions? The meaning was hers and hers only. Last month Gavin had kissed the neighbor’s boy, a lunging violent stab of a kiss she saw from the kitchen window. The neighbor’s boy had backed away, still holding the toy shovel they’d been using to bury a Ziploc of treasures. Wiping his mouth over and over. The shovel sailing through the air, Gavin catching it, the neighbor boy turning to run. Gavin at eleven. At forty he might come upon his own son’s toy shovel … and what? She tried to remember his face as the boy backed away. Fear? Shame? Triumph? She could only think how she had felt, climbing back into her bedroom, trailing bits of grass, crumbs of dirt, as she came toward her mirror. Who is that? Me. Yes, but who?

*



Banner day! You hear yourself saying those words, you had been thinking those words because that’s what Pop used to say on days like these, the sky blue as a swimming pool and the sun all light and no heat and the smell of barbecue coming from three yards over. But really everything hurts your eyes, the ice in your glass, your wife’s precious butterscotches, the color of your son-in-law’s shirt, the face of your grandson’s delicate wristwatch, even the shine of your daughter’s hair. You had been trying to sound cheerful. But you heard yourself. Banner day, ploop ploop, two turds. So be it. Your knee goes zing when you lean over to nudge Mitzi off your son-in-law’s ankle. The boy gasps, thinks you kicked her. Let him. Toughen him up. As a boy you were teased mercilessly. Big ears, thin legs, patched shirts, you were once chased into the woods and punched so hard you felt bits of your nose stream down your throat. Zing, the knee again. Pop had said, My poor son, you poor thing. You hadn’t hit back, not once. Fell to the ground, your hands over your face, watched the light in the leaves through your fingers. The boys were quiet about it. A serious business. Like butchers tenderizing a cut of meat. Pop had gently cleaned your face with one of your mother’s good washcloths and lavender soap until you felt sorry for yourself. Even now, you hate him for that.

*



The boy is thinking, Dandelions don’t really smell. Neither do daisies. I mean I guess they smell like dirt and grass. Mitzi smells like stale cake. Mom smells like oranges. Dad smells like nothing. If you scratch hard enough and then smell your fingers, you’ll smell whatever part of your body you just scratched. The boy’s body smells like lots of things. Buttered popcorn, the vinegar his mother uses to wash the floors, tomato sauce. The boy reminds himself, Smells are important in case you go blind. Dad says when the end of the world comes you don’t know what can happen. Your eyes might get burned out of your head. Mitzi’s digging, that smells like dirt of course. And dirt smells like dirt. The boy’s favorite smells are smells that don’t smell like anything else. Mitzi’s wreath has already fallen off. I’ll leave it, he thinks. If I try to put it back on, Grandpop might ask me about the glove again. The boy has already discovered that sometimes people decide things about you and you just have to let them. The boy plans on one day being a talk show guest. The host will blindfold him, hold Styrofoam cups in front of his nose. Worms, the boy will say. Cream of Wheat. Root beer. Paste. My balls. That’ll be his joke when the cup is filled with tomato sauce. That’s incredible! the host will say, pumping the boy’s hand. Applause. Starburst camera flashes from the darkness. The boy has read that space smells like cinnamon. He can’t imagine why. But better to think about that, and wonder if the sun really smells like a melted crayon like he thinks or like butterscotch like Grandmom says. Better that than kissing, better that than being called a fag at the bus stop. A million melted crayons worth of better.