Fallout (6 page)

SOMETIMES, WHEN IT’S JUST

Grandfather and me, if he’s downed

the exact right combination

of pills and brew, he’ll talk

about growing up in a little

backwater town maybe

six hours north of here.

Sweetwater may not be so

very far from San Antonio
,

but it’s a wide world apart.

We were possum poor and not

exactly unhappy being that way.

’Course we didn’t know better.

My pa was a born-again Baptist
,

and Sunday was the best day

of the week because Baptists

respect the Sabbath. Weren’t

no cotton rows hoed on Sunday
,

that’s for sure. Not a single one.

His accent is honey-thick Texas.

But Aunt Cora’s is a mild imitation.

She moved to California young,

when Maureen divorced Grandfather.

Still, she carries a hint of Good

Ol’ Boy (Girl?) in her inflection.

Me? I’m fighting it, though it may

be a losing battle. Still, despite

living in Texas for most of my life,

somehow it isn’t Home. And

the really messed-up part of that

is, I have no clear idea where

Home might be. It’s not here

in San Antonio. Not with Grandfather

or Aunt Cora, though it really

should feel that way. Not with

Trey, wherever he might settle

down if they actually let him go.

No, Home is somewhere else.

I don’t know if it’s a place

I’ve already been, or one

I’ve yet to find. But I’m pretty

sure the answer is tangled up

in Where I Came From.

AND WHERE I CAME FROM

Is tangled up

in those faces

I see. At least,

I’m pretty sure

it is. No one here

will tell me much

about why I’m here.

Other than the jail

thing, which I get.

But I know I must

have more family

somewhere. Why

have they never

tried to get hold

of me? It’s all so

confusing, especially

when the people

I do have insist

on keeping secrets.

I HAVE MANAGED

To learn a handful

of assorted details

about the jigsaw

puzzle

that is my beginning.

Nothing what you’d

call solid. Bits and

pieces.

I know I was born

in Nevada. Reno,

I’m told. But I

don’t

know if my mother

still lives there.

When I ask, I

always

get the standard

answer:
You don’t really

want to try and

connect

with her, do you?

Well, what if I do?

Do they

think if I found her,

I’d love them less?

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED

I’m not sure if I want to connect

with her or not. And even if I do,

I have no idea where to start. Not

like Grandfather will share information.

Reno? Maybe. But it’s a big place,

and Nevada is bigger. And why

think she still lives there? Besides,

I don’t even know her name.

I wonder

if she

remembers mine.

Maybe she’s dead. Disabled.

Brain fried too crispy to even try

to stop by and say hello for fifteen

years. I was two when Aunt Cora

took custody of me, which was just

about the time the State of Nevada

took custody of my parents. Locked

them up that time for a couple of years.

Aunt Cora says

the monster

swallowed them.

THE MONSTER

Is what they called their crystal.

We learned about it in school.

How it messes up your brain.

Makes your teeth go rotten.

Blasts caustic chemicals

through arteries and veins.

How just a little spoonful

keeps you up for days,

no desire for food, high

until you crash. Nosedive.

How using once or twice

can hook you. Take your mind

captive. Agitate cerebral cells

until you wind up psychotic.

What they didn’t say is how

the monster chews up families.

MINE ISN’T THE ONLY ONE

But it’s the only one I’m qualified

to talk about. I don’t know if my parents

were ever in love, but for argument’s

sake, I’ll imagine they were.

So along comes the monster. Then what?

Sex, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here.

Good sex? Bad sex? Group sex?

All of the above? I mean, why did any

of that have to change because they

decided to get high together? I don’t

understand. Did they both go gay in

lockup? Decide they liked same-sex

sex better than sex with each other?

Did they ever even try to put things

right with each other after they got out?

Did they ever even once think about me?