Fallout (31 page)

WE GET TO THE HOUSE

A little before noon. Cars line up along

the driveway single file, like half of Noah’s

beasts—Dad’s mostly restored Willys Wagon,

my Nissan (parked crooked, thanks so much, Nik),

Jake and Misty’s dirt-crusted blue Subaru,

Nikki’s mom’s showroom-clean Audi Quattro.

Her dad’s car—an amazing ’09 Z06 Corvette—

is conspicuously absent, but I wouldn’t expect

him to show this early, considering dinner

isn’t supposed to be served until late afternoon.

He’s probably six inches deep in his boss right now.

Poor Nikki’s mom. Guys are dogs. Woof, woof.

THIS DOG STARTS SALIVATING

As soon as the front door opens.

If the chiduckey tastes even half

as good as it already smells,

Nikki is going to get an extra,

extra special thank-you tonight.

Maybe that cooking show paid

off after all. Dad and Jake are

in the living room, watching Big

Ten football and slurping brew.

I poke my head through

the archway, feign interest. “Hey,

honey, I’m home. What’s the score?”

Jake stands, offers his right

hand.
All tied up, three-three.

Grab a beer and come sit down.

“Sure. Give me a few.” I follow

the drift of sage and rosemary

toward the kitchen, where

the women have gathered like

ravens to watch Mom crust

the prime rib with fresh ground

pepper and rock salt. Marie Haskins

doesn’t need cooking shows.

Experience trumps experiments.

It’s a scene right out of a movie.

Five women, all beautiful

within their own stages of life,

talking and laughing and drinking

wine. Golden-shelled pies decorate

the granite countertops, leak

scented steam, hinting at their

anonymous fillings. Bread

dough rises in yeasty grandeur,

and a chorus line of foil-wrapped

potatoes await their own turn in

the oven. It’s a scene right out

of a movie, okay. Artificial.

Look into any of these ladies’

eyes, I guarantee you’ll find

some manner of hurt. Something

to deny feasting and celebration.

Something to deny Thanksgiving.

CALL ME A CYNIC

You wouldn’t be inaccurate.

Then, again, neither is my assessment.

Conspicuously absent is one female

member of this family. Kristina

should be here for her kids.

And speaking of the demonic duo,

wonder what manner of evil David

and Donald are perpetrating right now.

Upstairs. In my former room.

I’ll check it out in a few. Meanwhile,

I probably should be social. “Hello,

ladies. Need any help?”

Mom says,
Don’t think so. But thanks.

Misty says,
How sweet of you to offer.

Leigh snorts, knowing the offer was

mostly empty. Nikki’s mom

turns rheumy eyes at me. Whoa.

How much wine has she sloshed already?

Nikki, sweet Nikki, sidles over, clearly

wanting to kiss me. Except

her mom is standing there staring.

Like I care. I reach, pull her right

up against me. “Your turkey thing smells

really good.” Then I whisper,

“But not as good as you,” and

I give her a giant lip smack, despite four

pairs of eyes pointed directly at the two

of us. Voyeurs deserve what they see.

Nikki smiles, but extricates herself

from my grasp and goes to be one

of the girls. Guess that’s my cue

to go be one of the guys.

I grab a beer from the fridge.

“Well, call if you need anything,” I lie.

When I turn, I notice David outside

the window playing with …

A NEW PUPPY

“Hey. No one told me you got

a new pup.” It’s been a few

months since Moxie died, at the ripe

old age of fourteen. Downright

elderly for a German shepherd.

Too quiet around here without

a dog
, Mom says.
Besides, we

thought it might be good for

the boys to have something

to love and take care of.

Or to dislike and mutilate.

Cynically speaking, of course.

David actually seems

to be enjoying the pup’s

company. I was just a little

younger when Moxie came

to us, all wiggly and yappy.

She grew into a straight-up

incredible dog, and I took

a fair amount of credit for that.

This puppy—Sasha, I’m told—

may be just the thing to bring

David and Donald out of

their shells. Only Donald, like

his mother, is obviously elsewhere.

I AM ON MY WAY

To check on his whereabouts

when the telephone rings. No

one else bothers, so I answer.

Hello? Who the fuck is this?

The always pleasant Ron.

I want to talk to Kristina.

“Uh, this is Hunter.” Wonder

if he even knows who I am.

“And Kristina isn’t here.”

I swear I can almost hear anger

swelling, pewter, in the silence.

Well, where the fuck is she?

My own temper kindles.

“I don’t know where she is,

Ron. She’s not my prob—”

She’s out fucking around on

me, isn’t she? Who is she with?

I swear, I’ll kick her ass.

“You already did that, dude.

Look. She isn’t here. I haven’t

seen her since last Christmas.”

Don’t lie to me, you little shit
,

or I’ll kick your ass too.
His

voice is a cougar’s sharp hiss.

His threat doesn’t scare me,

but it does piss me off. “You’re

going back to jail, you know….”

Dad materializes beside me,

takes the phone, calmly says,

Kristina isn’t here, Ron.

If you can’t find her, that’s

too bad, but it’s really not

our concern. What
does
concern

me is your ruining our holiday.

I’m going to hang up now.

Don’t call back. Today or ever.

Dad follows through, hangs

up, and that might be that except

around here, nothing ever is.

A LOUD GASP

On the stairs makes Dad

and me wheel in unison. Donald.

Was that my dad?
he shouts.

Why didn’t you let me talk to him?

My dad remains calm.
Your father

didn’t ask to talk to you, Donald.

So? I wanted to talk to him.

You can’t keep me away from him.

Dad’s voice rises, ever so slightly.

No one’s trying to keep you away—

Yes, you are. I hate you. I hate

it here. I want to go home….

The poor kid totally breaks

down.
Please. Let me go home.

Dad drops his voice a notch.

Look, son, you can’t go back there.

Liftoff again.
Shut up. Shut up.

Yes, I can.
Suddenly, something

flies by my face, barely clearing

my cheek before crashing into the wall.

“What the …?” I retrieve the now

useless thing, formerly my Wii controller.

Donald thumps up the stairs,

into his (my) room, slams the door.

Dad follows, and all of a sudden

a whole flock of women appears,

clucking like hens. We can all hear

Dad ask calmly,
Please let me in.

Just another day (holiday) in

paradise, huh? Still holding most

of my beer, I go to join Jake,

cheer for no team in particular.

Upstairs, Dad’s plea becomes

a demand.
Open this damn door!

In the hallway, the hens are

still clucking away. And …

“Hey,” I yell. “Is something

burning?”
Cluck-cluck-cluck. Bwoik!

I’m thinking a serious buzz

is in order. Beer will not do.