Titans (3 page)

That night, my family sits at the table. We haven’t eaten this way in months, and my hands sweat anticipating an announcement. This is how it happened when I was eleven. My mom offered a glass bubble of comfort in the form of chiles rellenos and ranchero beans, and six chairs positioned around a circular table.

Then they shattered that glass bubble with one swift hammer blow.

My younger sister, Zara, glances at me nervously. She’s only ten, too young to remember the details of losing our place in my grandfather’s home, but she recalls the emotions. The tears my mother cried, the silent shell my father built around himself. She knows there was a time of badness, and maybe she even remembers that it started with dinner as a family.

Dad stands near the stove, spooning Mexican rice onto plates while Mom rolls green chile carnitas tacos. This meal has been in our household rotation for as long as I can remember, one my mom learned from her mother, and one my dad tolerates. I take comfort in this meal. Nothing worrisome can happen when it’s the usual on the menu.

Dani, my older sister, sits to my right, her legs spread wide, fingers frantic over her cell phone. The phone is from her most recent boyfriend, someone she’s been with for over five months. An eternity, really. He doesn’t like it when she’s not available. I may be only seventeen, but that’s old enough to realize that makes Dani’s boyfriend a controlling jerk. Dani loves him, though, or so she says. And Mom and Dad aren’t paying attention anymore.

I watch my dad now, working on our plates like his life depends on it. Everyone must have a perfectly fair portion. Exact measurements, that’s his talent. At the electrical plant, he and Magnolia’s father oversaw the production machines. If anything went awry, Dad could repair it according to code. And if that didn’t work, he could envision an alternative solution in his mind and rig it so that it functioned again. Dad always said,
Machines work wonders, but you still need the human brain to oversee the machines
. I guess the plant disagreed, because now there are machines overlooking machines. I want to ask him about his interview today, but I’m smart enough to know that would be a mistake. If it had gone well, he’d have a glass of brandy in his hand, served over ice in a Green Bay Packers mug.

I glimpse an orange envelope in his back pocket and wonder what it is. Zara follows my gaze.

“What’s in your pocket, Dad?” she asks.

Instead of looking at Zara, he glances at my mom. Her entire body clenches, and then I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that bad news is brewing. My dad tries to push the envelope farther into his pocket, but it only jackhammers in there, half hanging out as he distributes our plates and takes his seat.

My parents stand a mere five feet apart in our humble kitchen. But the Grand Canyon could settle itself nicely between them. There was a time when my father and mother were one entity, a united front against our sisterly quarrels and pleas for a backyard trampoline. They shared coffee in the morning, and lingering hugs after my dad returned from work. My mother would whisper in Spanish in my father’s ear, and my dad would practically purr though he didn’t understand a word of it. They were disgusting, really.

I’d kill to have that back.

My mom sits down, and we say grace. There may not be much to be thankful for, but Mom is from San Antonio, and her Catholic upbringing will never fade. Dad pretends to pray alongside us. And Dani never looks up from her phone.

Only Zara bows her head over clasped hands in earnest. My mother’s daughter, through and through. As for me? I like the concept of my mother’s God. But I’d rather rely on myself. Her God wasn’t there the day Grandpa died.

But I prayed to him then, didn’t I? I prayed awful hard.

“Dani, put the phone down,” Dad says.

My older sister purses her lips, but continues texting.

“Dani,” my mother adds softly.

When Dani still doesn’t react, my pulse accelerates. I can feel the air change—a thick mustiness rolling in before a clap of thunder. My dad lifts his closed fist and bangs it once, twice against the dining table.

Dani slams the phone down. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is your mother and I made a meal you won’t bother looking at,” he booms.

“Tony, it’s okay,” Mom says, laying a hand on his arm.

My dad jerks away from her. “It’s not okay. She and that boy are obsessed.”

“His name is Jason,” Dani sneers. “And I’m not obsessed with him. I’m
in love
with him.” She flicks her eyes between my father and mother. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

My dad grips his fork in one hand, and I’m afraid he might actually stab her with it. “You don’t know what love is. And you don’t get to judge your mother and me. Not until you’ve been through what we have and survived.”

Dani averts her gaze and mutters, “Jason would never let us go through what you and Mom have.”

Zara grabs my hand beneath the table, and the air in my lungs grows still. My mother doesn’t move as my dad glowers at Dani. There are maybe three beats of silence. Then my dad’s chair flies backward and clatters to the floor. The orange envelope from his back pocket flutters to the ground. When my mom sees it lying there, she clenches her eyes shut. But not before I notice the tears in them.

Dad grabs the envelope and crumbles it in his fist. He brings that same fist close to Dani’s face and shakes it a couple of times, but words fail him. And as Dani ignores his outburst, my father storms from the kitchen and slams his bedroom door.

“Couldn’t you have just gotten off your phone?” I bark, irritated with my sister.

She kicks back and gets to her feet. “Screw you.”

Then she’s gone too.

My mom rubs her hands together, and I study the dirt beneath her nails. I wonder how long until she abandons the table too. She’ll tend to her gardens, and lose her worries to the feel of the soil between her fingers.

The answer: seven minutes.

She eats quietly with Zara and me for seven minutes, and then disappears. The front door clicks shut, and I tickle Zara, relieved that my family has mostly dispersed, though that can’t be good.

“Come on,” I tell a giggling Zara. “Help me with the dishes.”

She rises, and I pop her gently with a towel to show my appreciation. In the end, Zara only watches as I scrub, rinse, and dry. Because I don’t really need her help. Not with this, and not with anything else.

I just like her being close by.

Two hours later, I’m in the room I share with Dani. She slipped out the window Magnolia-style before I got there, off to see Jason the Glorious. Spreading out on my twin bed, I fiddle with the gears my father brought me over the years. He worked at an electrical plant, but a large space on the first floor was rented out to some guy who built customized parts for the Titans.

Titan 3.0s are built identical to one another, but there’s a hefty demand for after-market products that don’t affect performance. Pricey items, like sprocket covers engraved with the owner’s initials that no one will ever notice. That’s the kind of stuff this person made. When Dad realized it, he started bringing him vegetables from my mom’s garden. It took three tries before he hit the dude’s sweet spot.

Okra. He liked okra.

Dad never said anything when he left the parts on my bed, but I choked up every time. I wish my dad would say the important stuff out loud. I wish he’d tell me that what happened with Grandpa wasn’t my fault, and that we’ll never be as bad off as we were before we moved to the suburbs of Detroit. I wish he’d hug me and let me mourn. I wish he’d say he was proud of me, and that he’s still happy being a father and husband.

But I settle for the Titan parts.

I twirl a lug nut between my fingers and inspect the diagrams I drew of last year’s tracks. Cyclonetrack.com lists the basics from the previous season’s winner—name, sponsor information, finish time. But I had more. I calculated the winner’s turn ratios to the hundredth of a degree. I figured out his spin radius inside a particularly nasty jam, and the seconds he could have gained if he’d pushed closer to the slay zone.

I smile as I pencil a new set of numbers into my notebook, and draw a heavy box around an answer I’ve been computing for weeks. Then I return to the lug nut. Hold it up against the moonlight streaming through my bedroom window.

Does it need to be this heavy?

When the sound of my father’s radio reaches my ears, I spring from bed. I know what he’s listening for. It’s the only reason he ever tunes in versus flipping on our box television set. I creep from my room and slip down the hallway. Another door opens, and I spot Zara grinning in my direction. I wave her toward me and hold a finger to my lips.

At the end of the hall, I peek around the corner. Dad’s in his faded red recliner, the radio in his lap. I catch sight of Mom in the kitchen, knees covered in dirt. She’s watching my dad the same way we are. If we’re too eager, he’ll send us running from the room. But if we advance like enemy soldiers, one silent footstep after another, he’ll ignore us.

Dad lost what little money we’d managed to save since moving to Detroit on a Titan that never had a shot. It was before he got laid off, back when he thought a promotion was in the near future, and why not make two big things happen at once? Since then, he feigns hatred for the Titans and the drunken trouble the track brings so close to home. But he’s as fascinated with the horses as we are. And so he only mutters his discontent as we crawl onto the floor, settle near his knees, and listen as the jockey delves into the latest news to come from the Gambini brothers.

“As all Cyclone Track fans know, this year marks the fifth year the Titans run. The winning Titan and jockey will be awarded the usual monetary prize of two million dollars, and will lead Detroit’s annual Thanksgiving Day parade down Woodward Street. As always, all jockeys must complete the entire Titan Circuit, starting with …”

The man stops speaking and shuffles some papers. Within seconds, a female voice comes on.

“I’ve got it here, Jordan. All jockeys will start by registering their Titan 3.0s on cyclonetrack.com. That must be done by end of day next Friday. And that same weekend, the Titans run for the first time.”

“That’s right,” the man interjects. “The sponsor race will take place on Cyclone Track so that companies, and those individuals who can afford the entrance fees, can be sure they’re partnering with the best Titan and jockey. After the race, the jockeys and trainers will attend Travesty Ball to mingle one-on-one with sponsors. Once sponsorships are secured, and contracts have been signed, entrance fees will be paid and the official jockey/Titan lineup will be announced for the season.”

The woman laughs lightly before adding
,
“Of course, then there are the preliminary races, the circuit races, the ad sponsorships to fulfill, and all the Cyclone Track gossip that jockeys have to contend with soon after.”

“You enjoy that last part, don’t you?” the man jokes.

“Guilty!” She laughs harder. “I buy every issue of
Titan Enquirer
I can get my hands on. You know I still believe Harding and Flynn had an off-course romance last year.”

“Okay, before we get lost in that debacle, let’s announce the big surprise the Gambini brothers have lined up.”

“Oh, right!” the woman squeals. “I couldn’t believe this when I heard.”

Zara scoots closer, bringing me back to my parents’ crowded living room. We’re all packed together in there now: Mom sitting on the couch, Zara and I as close to my father as we can without him barking at us to go to bed.

“In celebration of the fifth year of Cyclone Track being opened, the Gambini brothers have decided that the first jockey to cross the finish line at the sponsor race will have their entrance fee waived.”

My mouth falls open. No way. Someone will race this year for free? No fifty-thousand-dollar barrier? It could be anyone who got that free spot! It could be someone from Warren County, even. What if they won the derby at the very end? That kind of opportunity could save a family out here. It could set them on a different course for life, far away from poverty.

“It’s so exciting,” the woman says. “Of course, they’ll need a Titan to enter.”

My heart plummets, which is ridiculous. Even my dad turns off the radio at this last part.

“Who do they think they’re fooling?” he mumbles to himself, ignoring the fact that we’re here. “All they’re doing is letting some rich chump hold on to cash he doesn’t need.”

“Yep,” I mutter without thinking.

My dad’s eyes connect with mine.

Uh-oh
.

“What are you guys doing up? Off to bed. Both of you!”

I jump up with Zara, and my mom returns to the kitchen. As I head back to my room, I can’t help sharing my father’s resentment. I once heard that a cat is both drawn to, yet repulsed by, the scent of its own litter box. Maybe that’s how I feel about the Titans. And about the celebrity magazines I hide beneath my mattress. They offer a glimpse into a different kind of life, one with excitement and security. I can’t help but be drawn to something like that.

I also can’t help but hate them for dangling a life that’s unreachable.