Rumble (30 page)

They’re my kids, too, goddamn it!

His face is the color of cherries,

and his temples are visibly thumping.

Jessie said he knows a lawyer

who might cut a vet some slack.

I’m half thinking his ex might have

valid reasons. But what I say is,

“That sucks, man. How old are

your kids?” Why am I asking?

Sixteen, fourteen, and twelve.

I wasn’t around much when they

were little. I don’t want them to

forget who their dad is, you know?

Even when my dad’s home, he’s

not really around, so yeah, I get it.

“I’ll see Uncle Jessie a little later.

I’ll be sure and have him call you.”

Everyone Has Vacated

The place by four thirty,

so I lock up at five on the nose,

hike up the hill to the old farmhouse,

fighting mud and incline.

I’m wheezing a fair amount

myself by the time I reach

the front door. “Uncle Jessie?”

I call as I go in, mostly to warn

Curly, Mo, and Larry, who might

not appreciate a surprise visitor,

if they happen to be inside. But no,

no sloppy pit-bull greetings.

Jessie’s on the living room couch,

beneath a blanket, watching hockey.

“No basketball?” I set his keys

quite obviously on the coffee

table, so he’ll know where

to look when he wants them.

Nah. Basketball was always

your dad’s sport. Not rough

enough for me. I want to see blood.

“I asked Dad to stop by after

he dropped off his girlfriend.

Guess he got tied up. Hell, maybe

he’s got
her
tied up.” Another joke

bites the dust. Uncle Jessie doesn’t

laugh, but he does turn his attention

toward me, curiosity in his eyes.

“You didn’t know about her?

It’s been going on for a while.”

He shakes his head.
Wyatt and

I haven’t talked in a good

many months. Doesn’t surprise

me much, though. In case you

haven’t noticed, men

aren’t monogamous by nature.

Pretty sure there’s a subtle

accusation to the statement,

but I’m not in the mood

to discuss my own relationships,

or lack thereof. “Oh really?

Does that include you?”

Hell no.
Zero hesitation.
Matt,

I’m a solitary soul. Quin’s more

than enough company for me.

Anyway, she never gave up

on me when everyone else

figured I’d probably croak.

And she stood right by my side

when I came home a one-eyed

freak. Wouldn’t be right, running

around on a woman like that.

Risk losing her for a shot

of poontang? Not on your life!

“Why didn’t you marry her

then? Afraid you might change

your mind down the line?”

No. I was afraid she might, and

I wanted her to be free to leave

if she wanted. I wasn’t a great catch.

Wrong, soldier. In my opinion,

you were an amazing catch.

It’s Quin, back from Eugene.

In Simultaneous Measure

I flush with relief—

didn’t want to leave

Uncle Jessie here alone—

and concern overtakes

Quin, who scurries to

the sofa.
Are you sick?

Her fingers probe

his forehead for fever.

“He thinks he’s coming

down with a bug. I told him

to get off his feet for a while.

Who knew he’d actually listen?”

Bug schmug. It’s nothing

a goddamn score couldn’t fix.

Come on, Kings.
The requisite

implied exclamation point

is totally missing. Quin

decides not to mention it,

instead asks me,
What’s up

with you? No girlfriends today?

“Nope,” I snort.

Not even one.

I Decline

Quin’s obligatory

dinner invitation.

Mention Gus’s request

for a number to call.

Remind them where

I left the office keys.

Give Quin a big hug,

beg off giving Jessie

one, too. He’s gracious.

Nobody needs a damn bug.

Truck key’s in the ignition.

See you next week.
Pause.

Sorry about your father.

Hope your mom’s okay.

“Thanks. I hope so, too.”

She is on my mind all

the way home. Truthfully,

I have no idea how she is.

No Groceries

No Dad. No Lorelei, at least.

I’m one hundred percent

starving, but before I raid

my piggy bank and head off

into the rainy night in search

of cheap sustenance, I give

Mom a call. She seems surprised

to hear from me, adding more

guilt to the pile I’m already

suffocating beneath. “I miss

you. Just wondering when

you’re coming home.” I already

suspect her answer, but still

it’s like diving into ice water

when she tells me she’s not.

I thought your father would

have told you by now. What

would I do in Cottage Grove

but wallow in resentment?

Wyatt is determined to start

over. I have no choice but to

move on, too. I can stay here

with Sophie and Shawn as long

as I need to. Your grandparents

are getting older, and I’ll be

closer to them. My church is here,

and it’s brought me a lot of comfort.

On a brighter note, Sophie and I

have been talking. When we were

kids, we used to play dress-up and

fantasize about designer clothes.

We’ve decided to open a little

boutique in Eugene. I’m tired

of real estate, and I’ve got a nest

egg saved up. It’s all in, baby.

A boutique? Like Eugene’s a raving

fashionista scene. Whatever, I guess.

At least she’s got a dream. “The last

time we talked about this, you said

you couldn’t let Dad win.”

I’ve rethought the definition

of winning. He’s stuck in the past,

and there’s a lot of sadness there.

I’m moving forward. It has to be better.

She Asks

About school, but is certain

I’m maintaining my grades.

As far as she knows,

I have nothing else

to worry about.

I tell her all’s well.

She asks if I’m being

faithful to Martha—okay, if

I’m faithfully attending our

sessions.

I lie and say of course.

She does not query me

about “that girl,” or if we’re using

protection. Maybe she’s aware

that we’ve broken up.

Maybe Hayden is in her friends network.

By the time we hang up,

I know a lot more about how

Mom is.

She still doesn’t know jack about me.

It’s a Bittersweet Ending

To a totally

unpleasant weekend.

Hurray for holidays!

Can I get a woot-woot?

I’ve lost my appetite,

but considering I’ve had four

frozen waffles and an omelette

in two days, I conjure the energy

for a trip to Subway. When I get back,

Dad’s in the kitchen putting

away three bags of groceries.

Milk. Beer. Peanut butter.

Bread. Definite bachelor fare.

I help with the cans—fruit,

soup, beans, chili—and cereal.

At least he took a stab

at the four food groups.

We work in silence,

afraid we’ll say too much

if we open our mouths.

When we’re finished, I offer up

a single word. “Thanks.”

You’re welcome.

It’s the Most We Say

To each other all week,

which proves to be a tough

one. I swear, I see Hayden

around school more now

than I ever did when I went

looking for her. One or more

Biblette is always with her,

and it’s usually Jocelyn. If

she turns that haughty bitch

glare at me one more time,

I’m liable to go ballistic.

It’s all I can do to keep walking.

Midterms are coming up, so

every class is choked with

monotonous reviews, totally

unnecessary unless you didn’t

pay attention the first time. I did.

More than once, I’m called out

for zoning while a teacher is

talking. Every time I mutter

a lukewarm “sorry” when I want

to scream, “Teach us something

new for cripe’s sake, or stop

pretending to be a fucking teacher!”

I Do Keep

My appointment with Martha.

Not to talk about Luke or Hayden

or any new revelations there,

but to discuss my parents’ pending

divorce. “Mom moved out a few

weeks ago. She’s not coming back.”

How do you feel about that?

“Like my life’s being methodically

ripped into ever smaller pieces.”

That’s quite descriptive. Poetic, even.

But this isn’t really a surprise, is it?

“Well . . . I mean, I knew they had

problems, but didn’t expect them to

become so permanently unattached.

And I had no idea about Dad’s girlfriend.”

How do you feel about her?

“She had no right to be screwing Dad

while they were married to other people.”

Do you think that was the root

cause of your parents’ problems?

“I don’t know. But Lorelei made it

easier for Dad not to want to fix them.”

How do you feel about that?

“Stop asking how I feel! Deserted.

Neglected. Unwanted. Unloved.”

Is that different from how you felt

before your mom moved out?

Thud. Great fucking question.

“Probably not a lot.” I hate Martha.

What about Hayden?

I did not. Come here. To talk. About

her. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

You told me you feel unloved,

but she loves you, right?

She’s either psychic or good at fishing.

“Not anymore. Not for a while.”

And So We Arrive

At the heart of my overwhelming

feeling of loss. My parents

split emotionally years ago.

Intellectually, they were probably

never joined. Had they gone

their separate ways before Luke’s

death, he and I would have been

like any kids faced with their parents’

divorce. Sad, yes. Angry, probably.

But we would have learned to cope

with it. Instead, both my parents

and my so-called girlfriend waited

until after Luke died to leave me.

Martha wormed all that out of me,

because she’s excellent at her job.

What she can’t tell me, however,

is where to find forgiveness. What

she can’t tell me is how to move on.

Yes, I resent all three of them

for finding forward motion. But

more, I hate them for not carrying

me along. And while, thanks to Martha,

I understand the psychology, I’m not

looking for ways to forgive them.

So, Yeah