Family (12 page)

a week passes.

another dust storm, another campfire.

whispers, creeping.

engines kicking on,

turning over.

arrivals, exchanges

secrets and dealings and fury and tides.

but still

no

important

visitor.

another night with my sisters,

my father,

my
family:

more smoke,

more medicine.

more chemical summoning

of the high tide.

Henry exhales slowly, leans forward.

presses His palms firmly to His knees.

it is time for more truth,

fireside wisdom.

time for us all—

for our
family—

to

arise.

Henry has something to say.

a message to deliver.

some truth,

love,

wisdom

to impart.

He starts:

“the man has tried

to keep me

down.”

flame leaps,

laps at his ankles;

smoke drapes,

snakes,

swoons.

swaddles him in murky gray

haze.

a veil has dropped;

i see the outside world in fragments,

through spools of cotton batting

that muffle,

that cloak.

the
man?

no, it’s more than that.

more than the one visitor.

it is
all
of the

blank,

nameless,

faceless

men.

all of the uncles

creeping,

lurking

late at night.

filling up any open spaces

they can

find.

i hear Henry’s message.

His word.

His truth.

i can relate.

men are:

sharp teeth,

slick canines.

bloodlust,

anger,

hunger.

empty spaces.

hollowed-out husks.

i can relate. i have been there.

i have been

.

but.

Henry was meant to erase all of that.

the premise of Henry—

His promise, His power—

was to wave a wand,

to wiggle a finger, to grant a wish

and make the
before
vanish,

dissolve,

desist.

to make me whole again.

instead,

there is the creep,

the seeping sting

of salt water

droplets, like tears,

clinging to the whispered words

passed between my
family

in secret.

and the smoke

can only do

so much.

i breathe in what i can.

swallow it down

like a

whisper.

Henry catches my eye.

notes the heavy rise of my chest.

sees
me.

sees
through
me.

knows
.

everything.

He can taste the doubt i carry,

i think.

can cut through the cotton wool

to where

the worry

lives.

can sense my fear

of the building

undertow.

i breathe quickly, my heartbeat catching in my throat,

to think that Henry so easily reads every secret space of mine.

breathing brings the cloud-shifts back,

the lazy haze,

erases all traces of

.

drowns me.

again.

i think:

Henry, too—

Henry,
Himself—

has been suppressed.

has been swallowed,

consumed,

devoured.

considered and rejected

by this so-called

.

this blank, important person

who is somehow
more
,

somehow infinite.

somehow
never
.

to think that Henry has bled.

more
than Henry.>

guilt and anger wash over me, a sheen of indignation,

as the medicine takes hold.

Henry
.

has been left. out.

by this person, this

visitor, who did not visit.

who is little more than an unfulfilled premise.

a broken promise. an execution of a plot.

sinister. chaotic.

potent

and poised to strike.

“the man didn’t want me—didn’t want any of
you
.”

the man
. Henry means

something larger than merely the stranger,

the connections He thought were finally, fully fusing.

He means
everyone
,

everything
,

infinity
.

we nod,

collectively,

contemplatively.

we are rapt,

captive pupils.

we are devout disciples.

we are deadly intent.

no one can hurt

Henry.

a mumble, a moan, a barely contained squeal of agreement escapes from leila’s lips.

she senses what must be done.

the rest of us remain in silent agreement. we know, too:

Henry must not be kept down, suppressed, silenced.

Henry’s love must not be restrained.

Henry’s word is truth.

we will deliver the message. His message.

His word. His
never
.

His
now
.

He says:

“the man has tried. to keep me down.

“but after armageddon—

after helter-skelter?

we’re gonna show the man—

we’re gonna show him how it’s done.

“we are going to

“rise.”

i do not know what helter-skelter is, what it is that Henry means when He exhorts us to

.

but.

i do know:

that Henry—

my father, my lover, my shadow-self—

has been made to bleed.

and i know:

that my family protects one another.

i know:

another promise,

however unspoken, has been forged.

among us.

in His name.

among my
family:

we will

.

i have discovered:

i like things clean.

like the tidy/tidal order of the either/or.

i like things neat,

contained,

filled in.

so.

i like to do the washing.

of all the chores, the tasks—

the banal, mundane,

day-to-day delirium

of my newfound, eternal
now,

of all the ways i’m given

to pass the endless,
always
-time

here in ersatz-everything—

washing is the simplest.

the most satisfying.

soothing.

we don’t have a machine on the ranch,

but i don’t mind.

i have discovered:

i like things clean.

we don’t have a machine,

so instead, i wash by hand.

i use a low, wide aluminum tub that is kept out behind the barn;

once a week, i fill it from a thick, waxy tangle

of green garden hose

and chalky, lumpy soap

that leila and shelly melt down

from salvaged scraps of store-bought bars.

the wash water is always cold,

always a slap,

a gasp,

a breathless shock that catches,

clenches

at the base of my stomach.

it grabs me deep,

takes me by surprise,

each time.

each time,

i plunge my hands into the icy suds

and contract,

instantly bracing against the

sharp awakening.

each time,

i fold in upon myself,

shrink at least nine sizes.

i reel.

each time.

but.

i always regain my footing quickly.

always recoil,

rebound.

the soapy slop is an alarm,

a siren,

a knife slipped smoothly

into the soft, hollow space

below my rib cage.

it rouses me.

methodically,

almost rhythmically, i rise,

step back.

begin the baptism.

again.

always.

i douse the articles of clothing,

one at a time,

lower them each in turn

into the shallow, murky pool,

watch them darken and swell

with saturation.

i press,

i knead,

i twist,

enjoying the sensation of frigid backsplash

against the goosefleshed surface of my

bare arms.

i have discovered:

i like to do the

washing.

the process is

an exercise in

zen.

clarity.

purity.

i like things

clean.

my favorite part is when i am finally finished,

when i’ve draped the clothes—

my
family’s
clothes—

across the low-slung line to dry.

when i can step back, proud and tired,

squint,

see them sway in the sunlight

like hollowed-out ghosts,

like outlines.

like suggestions

of something
more
,

something whole.

something full.

supple.

something maybe

perfect.

i have even removed

most of the blood from that night.

from shelly’s fever dream.

a slight stain remains,

a smudge,

a photo negative of what was lost.

some things can’t be scrubbed out.

and shelly spends ever-increasing time on her own,

nestled,

motionless,

curled beneath new bedsheets,

contemplating something more.

something whole.

something full.

supple.

something maybe

perfect.

a slight stain remains.

some things can’t be scrubbed out.

fever dreams aside,

we don’t produce much washing.

the family. doesn’t.

despite how full to bursting life on the ranch can be.

leila and the other sisters would just as soon go bare, natural,

exposed

.

so that once a week, i am mostly sorting through the pockets

of Henry, junior, and the other men

who come around.

sometimes, i find things. in the washing.

once a week, while sifting through the dirty laundry,

i find things. i come across all sorts of interesting things,

while i do the washing.

you wouldn’t believe the sorts of things that some people waste.

the things that people sometimes throw away.

for example:

it is an overcast morning—

i don’t know what day it is,

haven’t known the day or date

since Henry first stumbled upon me back in the haight

(we have no use for calendars, here at the ranch)—

but.

it is morning, because that is part of the routine,

my routine,

for laundry.

morning
. is.

so.

it is morning,

and i am awake.

ready to begin the weekly baptism.

i shake out junior’s pants legs,

reach inside his pockets to turn them inside out,

and a long, smooth, glossy object flies out of a pocket and lands at my feet.

the object beckons like a jewel;

i have a flash of muddled recognition.

i bend at the waist, crouch down,

grab at it, run my fingers along cool steel grooves.

a knife.

a switchblade
,

big, bigger

than any i’ve seen before.

the knife is scratched but sturdy,

solid against the flat face of my palm.

when i press against its release,

a swath of sharpened metal

kisses the thinnest part

of my skin.

i wonder, briefly,

what junior plans to use it for.

but of course, i can’t ask.

will not ask.

of course, there is no
why
.

not here.

not ever.

so. i don’t ask.

i turn the blade again,

shudder to see its lengthy surface gleam.

it is big, bigger.

it is a threat.

and i am afraid.

i set the knife aside to be

returned.

and i worry.

later, after lunch, i track junior down.

i tug at his shirt,

reluctantly hand him back the knife,

push the thought of its cocked,

spring-loaded potency

to the far corners of my mind.

i tamp down the worry.

the fear.

the fray.

junior peers at the knife,

arches an eyebrow,

purses his lips.

smiles

with recognition.

“that ain’t mine,” he says, grinning.

“it’s Henry’s. i was just borrowing it.

Henry wanted me to get a feel for it,

to get ready for helter-skelter.

“it’s Henry’s,” junior says.

“you can return it

to Him.”

so

i do.

i return it—

the knife—

to Henry,

without another

word.

without a sound.

without question.

but not

without

,

not

without

the cold,

clenching shock

of

slowly growing

fear.

not

without

wondering

still.