Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls(11)

Nah, ma, that ain’t true. He tosses his baseball cap on our pink leather couch, then dives into it.

Did you know that rat attacks are real? The last one happened in New York in nineteen-seventy-something. Nobody believes me about the rat in our car because it lives in the backseat, but one day it’s gonna rat attack me with a rat pack and my eyeballs will get chewed out by the time my parents get on the Sawgrass Expressway.

Damn, ma. Why you always so twisted? Uncle Whack pulls a pack of Parliament Lights from the waistband of his boxers. He bites into a filter, lights up, blows the smoke up into our skylight. A band of wavy light streams down on his body as if he’s a saint.

Did you know smoking will kill you? I say, But your body can and will repair itself within five years of your last cigarette?

What are you, ten? Chill with that shit. You read that in the Cyclopedia?

Last week, a major anti-smoking organization came to our school and taught us about the dangers of tobacco. We sang a song about cigarettes to the melody of Peter Pan’s “I Won’t Grow Up,” as a group of PTA parents and teachers filmed us on camcorders for a potential television commercial. I won’t light up! we sang, I will never smoke a day, ’cuz tobacco is EVIL, it’ll take your youth away. ’Cuz cigarettes are awfuler than all the awful things that ever were, I’ll never light up, never light up, never light up—not me!

At the end of the day, a blonde dreidel of a woman passed around a pack of Salem Lights and told us all to sniff them and let the consequences spill over our hearts. I never wanted to let go of that pack. I wanted to absorb that woody, muscled smell. I wanted to be the blonde-permed Sandy at the end of Grease—zipped in black, tight and shining as a seal—desired and getting it once she chewed out that cigarette with a stiletto twist, as if it were a natural instinct, one she’d known all along. I pulled a Salem from the pack and ran it back and forth under my nose like a harmonica, feeling every bump of paper on my skin. I considered stealing it—pocket? Caboodle?—but the dreidel woman snapped at me to pass it on and so I did.

Did you know I’m going to be famous? I say. A famous No Smoking advocate.

Uncle Whack thumbs at the remote, and then another remote, and then a third. My father likes this setup: a six-foot big-screen TV, with three smaller TVs on top of it. This way, he can watch several games at the same time. Uncle Whack flicks ash into my father’s ashtray on the couch.

So, whatcha wanna watch on Daddy Whack’s black box?

I do not tell him the truth.

At the barn, Uncle Whack is afraid of the horses. I show him how to palm carrots into their mouths, fingers webbed away from the teeth, but Uncle Whack keeps his distance. He adjusts his hat, turns it forward and back, saying, Nah, ma, I don’t do big dogs.

What’s your guy’s name? he asks.

I have four of them, I say. But this one’s my favorite. I kiss my pony on the nose. Nicky is his home name, but his show name is Cloud 9. I’m convinced the temperature of Nicky’s nose can predict the weather. Today, I feel rain.

What’s a show name?

Your home name is, like, stupid. It’s who you are at home. Alfie or Frisky or Wrinkles—usually kind of embarrassing. Your show name is the one you use in horse shows, and big stadiums, when you’re all braided up and exactly who you want to be. They’re jazzier. Better. My horses are Cloud 9, Velvet Slippers, and Bid’s Glitter Man, see? Tulip is my mini-pony, and she doesn’t have a show name because she’ll never grow up or be famous.

Uncle Whack rolls his eyes. I can tell he’s not taking me seriously.

Wanna help me tack up? I ask.

Can I sit while I do it?

I guess.

I clasp Nicky into the crossties in the aisle of the barn. I ask Uncle Whack to hand over my bounce pad, my saddle. He flinches when I tighten the girth around Nicky’s barrel-belly, saying, Damn, yo, that’s rough. He loops the leather martingale around his own neck and smiles, Giddyup, it’s Uncle Whack! I don’t think he’s ever been around horses before.

I remove Nicky’s halter and wrap my arm around his head before I say, Watch this, plunging my fingers into his gums, behind his molars, his mouth grinding grassy foam onto my shirt as I lift a snaffle bit over his tongue. There is nothing exciting or impressive about putting a bridle on a horse, but I want to show Uncle Whack that I’m not afraid of teeth, that I can be firm and deliberate.

Did you know I brought Nicky to school for show-and-tell?

I think I heard about that, says Uncle Whack.

I took him on a course around the playground and we jumped the seesaw, back and forth. It was groovy. The school news did a whole segment on me.

Is that what fancy school’s like these days? In the Rat’s Mouth? Kids bringing their ponies to school and shit?

I’m going to Nationals this summer, you know, I say. In Chicago. Then the Olympics, obviously. I’m kind of a big deal. I’m going to be the next Margie Goldstein Engle. Even she says I’ve got something special.

That’s ’cause you’re a kid, says Uncle Whack. Everyone talks up kids like they’re special.

I reach my left toe into my stirrup iron and swing myself up and over Nicky’s body. No leg up, no mounting block. I want my fake uncle to know I am strong. In the ring, I warm up quickly: two-point, trot, canter. We move in tight circles. I jump courses without counting my strides. I want speed, not precision. When we fly, I yank on Nicky’s mane, dive forward, ducking; I forget about form.