Novel: My Secret Crush on George Clooney and Other Tales from the Quietest Corner of the Room.
You'd be surprised. You'd be surprised that I'm thinking this. Many of you might be surprised that I'm thinking at all. I don't blame you, really. But, in fact, it is my second favorite hobby. My first, well, what I know could fill volumes.
The kitchen smells like warm syrup and steam, and when I breathe it in, I can picture a different time. A different life. The life from before, where light would strike out in waves, oceans of waves. The life of my dreams.
My mother is at the sink. Her hair is braided through with wire threads and she leans to one side, her hip cocked, her running shoe bent to the side. I can see navy blue veins trailing along the back of her legs, and that her sock is loose around her ankle. I wonder if I have the same veins, there, just behind the knee. I'll never know. I certainly can't ask. She turns to me then, and smiles, looking at me out of the corner of her eye as she runs a scrubber through the coffee mug, the same tea-stained coffee mug she's been using for years. It's almost superstitious, the way we use and reuse things around here. The sheets are washed so many times the cotton is softer than silk, and thinner. I inadvertently look away at the counter, chipped formica, the edge peeling back to expose wood, and then down at my legs and back again. They are pale pink, the color around the eyes of a white mouse...and rail thin. Nicole Richie, eat your heart out.
"Alright Miss Melody May Juniper Grouchalot," she says throwing a towel over her shoulder and leaning forward with a southern accent that is not her native cadence, "What say you we hunt up some picnic supplies and get a move on?"
I have no interest in a picnic. They aren't that fun. But, I do like the park. I smile and inevitably look away. My neck loosens and I stare at the ground. My mother's warm palm presses against my forehead, and I meet her eyes and smile. She strokes my cheek and wanders away then, and I stretch my arm and try to clear my throat. Again. There's a tickle there that I've had for a month. Or maybe more. Allergies, I think. Just what I need, a trek through cut grass and pollen.
If it were my choice, I would drive to the beach. Nothing there but sand, sky birds flapping hysterically. I could see their feathers, white, gray, tan. Seagulls have tan in them, sometimes, the pretty ones. Most people only see the gray. I like, too, when kids pull their kite strings through clouds of flapping squawks, curls bouncing, unaware of the bird dung and the smell of fish. I notice those things too.
But, that's not where we're going. We're going two blocks away, to the square grass with two trees, and a sidewalk diagonally placed so the clearing is actually unclear, but it has a brightly painted playground. The sun is shining outside, and is streaming through the skylights. It is early September. I don't need a calendar to know. I can tell by the bare-bulb light of it. After all, I've seen twenty six of them, and who watches more closely than me?
#
My father is a tallish man. Not slight. But not very big, either. He has the body of a marathoner, though he's never run a mile. He's the only man I have ever really known. Right now he's covered in yellow feathers as my mother patiently sews snaps onto the neck so he doesn't choke to death when the head is on. He looks down at his feet, and grins at the orange and pink felt that flops over his shoes. His hair is shorn, almost bald, and mostly gray, but he has a young face. I can still see the collar of his AC/DC t-shirt above the yellow.
Even though they are no longer together, haven't been in as long as I can remember, he watches my mother. I see him sometimes. It's not some sappy look of love, or even admiration. What's the word I'm looking for? Curious. Like he can't figure her out.
He looks at her, and he wants to know more. But she...she doesn't look at him the same.
I wonder sometimes what happened there and wish I could ask, but I know it's a sore subject. That much I can tell.
"Too tight." My father rasps as he crooks his index finger into his neck and squirms, making a suffocating face at me, and crossing his eyes. I laugh and my eyes roll.
My mother is so different. It's not that she doesn't have a sense of humor. She definitely does. And she can be really funny and sarcastic, but she has a dry sensibility, an appreciation for the absurd. My father...he supplies the absurd. Like this bird deal. He's been doing it for as long as I can remember. Once a month he heads to Children's Hospital and brings books, incognito. That's what he calls it.
He's a writer. Well, sort of. He wrote a book right out of college that got some acclaim. You may have heard of it. The Red Elephant. I've never read it, at least not the whole thing, but it's supposed to be quite good. I get headaches when I try to read too long these days, and before, I think I was just too young to have appreciated it, but it has this great opening line. I memorized it, it's something I repeat like a mantra to myself when I'm alone, or when he's away, although I see him almost every day. He swings by, ruffles my hair like I'm a little kid, and shoots me a crooked smile.
Here's the line: "Carnivorous vagabonds they were and they carried their hearts in their packs."
It was about four war buddies, but really it seemed to be less about the fighting and more about starving souls and the wasteland of party politics. Now he teaches a humanities class at Emerson.
"Cam, I'm going to stick you if you don't stop wiggling around." She yanks him back into place, and he sends me a look of chagrin. "Cam!"
He stiffens as she pulls his shoulders back suddenly. "What?"
"How the hell did you rip this again anyway?"
"I don't know. Maybe you didn't sew it up correctly the first time."
She mutters under her breath. "I'll sew you up alright."
"What's that?"
My mother presses her lips tightly together and keeps mum.
Her new boyfriend is nothing like my dad, and I think that makes her happy. Justin is nice. I like him. He's a big golfer and he kind of has a soft belly and a double-chin that he covers with a goatee. And his hair's a little longish. He always looks like he needs a hair cut, but it never gets any longer or shorter. I can't figure it out, quite frankly. But he's funny. He doesn't try to be anything but what he is. And, he doesn't look away. He always looks me right in the eye. That's something.
The kitchen smells like warm syrup and steam, and when I breathe it in, I can picture a different time. A different life. The life from before, where light would strike out in waves, oceans of waves. The life of my dreams.
My mother is at the sink. Her hair is braided through with wire threads and she leans to one side, her hip cocked, her running shoe bent to the side. I can see navy blue veins trailing along the back of her legs, and that her sock is loose around her ankle. I wonder if I have the same veins, there, just behind the knee. I'll never know. I certainly can't ask. She turns to me then, and smiles, looking at me out of the corner of her eye as she runs a scrubber through the coffee mug, the same tea-stained coffee mug she's been using for years. It's almost superstitious, the way we use and reuse things around here. The sheets are washed so many times the cotton is softer than silk, and thinner. I inadvertently look away at the counter, chipped formica, the edge peeling back to expose wood, and then down at my legs and back again. They are pale pink, the color around the eyes of a white mouse...and rail thin. Nicole Richie, eat your heart out.
"Alright Miss Melody May Juniper Grouchalot," she says throwing a towel over her shoulder and leaning forward with a southern accent that is not her native cadence, "What say you we hunt up some picnic supplies and get a move on?"
I have no interest in a picnic. They aren't that fun. But, I do like the park. I smile and inevitably look away. My neck loosens and I stare at the ground. My mother's warm palm presses against my forehead, and I meet her eyes and smile. She strokes my cheek and wanders away then, and I stretch my arm and try to clear my throat. Again. There's a tickle there that I've had for a month. Or maybe more. Allergies, I think. Just what I need, a trek through cut grass and pollen.
If it were my choice, I would drive to the beach. Nothing there but sand, sky birds flapping hysterically. I could see their feathers, white, gray, tan. Seagulls have tan in them, sometimes, the pretty ones. Most people only see the gray. I like, too, when kids pull their kite strings through clouds of flapping squawks, curls bouncing, unaware of the bird dung and the smell of fish. I notice those things too.
But, that's not where we're going. We're going two blocks away, to the square grass with two trees, and a sidewalk diagonally placed so the clearing is actually unclear, but it has a brightly painted playground. The sun is shining outside, and is streaming through the skylights. It is early September. I don't need a calendar to know. I can tell by the bare-bulb light of it. After all, I've seen twenty six of them, and who watches more closely than me?
#
My father is a tallish man. Not slight. But not very big, either. He has the body of a marathoner, though he's never run a mile. He's the only man I have ever really known. Right now he's covered in yellow feathers as my mother patiently sews snaps onto the neck so he doesn't choke to death when the head is on. He looks down at his feet, and grins at the orange and pink felt that flops over his shoes. His hair is shorn, almost bald, and mostly gray, but he has a young face. I can still see the collar of his AC/DC t-shirt above the yellow.
Even though they are no longer together, haven't been in as long as I can remember, he watches my mother. I see him sometimes. It's not some sappy look of love, or even admiration. What's the word I'm looking for? Curious. Like he can't figure her out.
He looks at her, and he wants to know more. But she...she doesn't look at him the same.
I wonder sometimes what happened there and wish I could ask, but I know it's a sore subject. That much I can tell.
"Too tight." My father rasps as he crooks his index finger into his neck and squirms, making a suffocating face at me, and crossing his eyes. I laugh and my eyes roll.
My mother is so different. It's not that she doesn't have a sense of humor. She definitely does. And she can be really funny and sarcastic, but she has a dry sensibility, an appreciation for the absurd. My father...he supplies the absurd. Like this bird deal. He's been doing it for as long as I can remember. Once a month he heads to Children's Hospital and brings books, incognito. That's what he calls it.
He's a writer. Well, sort of. He wrote a book right out of college that got some acclaim. You may have heard of it. The Red Elephant. I've never read it, at least not the whole thing, but it's supposed to be quite good. I get headaches when I try to read too long these days, and before, I think I was just too young to have appreciated it, but it has this great opening line. I memorized it, it's something I repeat like a mantra to myself when I'm alone, or when he's away, although I see him almost every day. He swings by, ruffles my hair like I'm a little kid, and shoots me a crooked smile.
Here's the line: "Carnivorous vagabonds they were and they carried their hearts in their packs."
It was about four war buddies, but really it seemed to be less about the fighting and more about starving souls and the wasteland of party politics. Now he teaches a humanities class at Emerson.
"Cam, I'm going to stick you if you don't stop wiggling around." She yanks him back into place, and he sends me a look of chagrin. "Cam!"
He stiffens as she pulls his shoulders back suddenly. "What?"
"How the hell did you rip this again anyway?"
"I don't know. Maybe you didn't sew it up correctly the first time."
She mutters under her breath. "I'll sew you up alright."
"What's that?"
My mother presses her lips tightly together and keeps mum.
Her new boyfriend is nothing like my dad, and I think that makes her happy. Justin is nice. I like him. He's a big golfer and he kind of has a soft belly and a double-chin that he covers with a goatee. And his hair's a little longish. He always looks like he needs a hair cut, but it never gets any longer or shorter. I can't figure it out, quite frankly. But he's funny. He doesn't try to be anything but what he is. And, he doesn't look away. He always looks me right in the eye. That's something.
