loaded, in an unlocked cabinet. They’re always loaded in an unlocked cabinet, somehow. Always the friend’s stepfather’s gun. There was a picture of the little boy, wearing glasses. Huge, unselfconscious, gap-toothed grin. An involuntary sob rose up in me and echoed through the house.
Paul came in with the baby.
Are you okay?
No. This little boy shot himself .
He glanced at the headline, at the picture.
Surprising it doesn’t happen more often, I guess . Paul and the baby and the dead little boy stared at me.
No, I’m fine. I mean, everything’s just swell, Paul. I mean, how does the world even continue to spin, you know? How is it so fucked-up easy to die and so fucking hard to get born? How is that kind of imbalance possible? You know? What is a possible explanation for that? Can you explain that to me? I would really like someone to explain it to me. I mean, what the fuck? Someone had to give birth to that boy. What the fucking FUCK?
He handed me a tissue.
Why don’t you go take a nap or something?
The little boy in the paper just grinned.
Some other things about my mother.
She liked burnt toast with margarine on a square of paper towel. She once threw a chair at a wall when she came home to find me watching TV against orders. A man came to fix the plaster and paint a few days later. The incident was never mentioned again.
She got sick when I was a baby, got better, got sick again in grade school, got slightly better, got sick again, did not get better. I wasn’t really in the loop. It’s fuzzy. No one told me shit. I had to pick up clues, figure it out. She got sicker and sicker. Dead the November of my seventh-grade year, months still to go before summer vacation, the stench of sickness and death coming off me all mixed up with puberty, that other treacherous decay.
Her photos are all over the place; this house is like a shrine: black-and-white baby in saddle shoes, blushing bride with bouffant and cinched waist. Strangely quiet in her late thirties, owl glasses reflecting the light from a window as she gazes down at me, newborn in her arms staring blankly back. It’s like an unhinged Mexican funeral in here. Even found this weird little painting of a skull at a thrift shop in Troy. All done in fluorescents, trippy.
My father knocked on my bedroom door the night it finally happened.
It’s over, sweetheart. It’s over. It’s finally over . He hugged me tight—too tight—and cried on my shoulder for a while before going out and closing the door behind him, leaving me to my silence and books and female folksingers. Anticlimactic, when it finally happened. I stayed up until dawn, but I couldn’t have told you why.
The whole class signed a condolence card. Herd of forced, off-kilter signatures: what pure, distilled humiliation. I had hoped to distinguish myself in other ways. It was embarrassing that my mother had died, that I was so human and pitiable. Everyone was nice to me, so false and bright. Her dying had nothing to do with me , I wanted to explain. I didn’t die!
But I had entered a different realm and would have to stay there indefinitely, in close proximity to death. There was an exoticism inherent in that; I just wasn’t sophisticated enough to go Goth with it.
I was let off the hook for the Jenny J assault (though her father did briefly, excitedly threaten to sue). I relished the way she cowered from me at school, eye turning from navy blue to purple and red to rot yellow. That’s right, bitch. Watch out. She tried to avoid me. I’d stare her down to torture her. It made me feel better.
Teachers spoke to me like I was a frightening robot whom the wrong tone or combination of words might short-circuit. In lieu of talking to me himself (at all, about anything), my father sent me to Jack, inaugural shrink, who squirmed a lot and said hmmm and those are powerful feelings , eyes darting at the clock over my shoulder.
Here is a little secret about grief, catastrophe, loss,
Paul came in with the baby.
Are you okay?
No. This little boy shot himself .
He glanced at the headline, at the picture.
Surprising it doesn’t happen more often, I guess . Paul and the baby and the dead little boy stared at me.
No, I’m fine. I mean, everything’s just swell, Paul. I mean, how does the world even continue to spin, you know? How is it so fucked-up easy to die and so fucking hard to get born? How is that kind of imbalance possible? You know? What is a possible explanation for that? Can you explain that to me? I would really like someone to explain it to me. I mean, what the fuck? Someone had to give birth to that boy. What the fucking FUCK?
He handed me a tissue.
Why don’t you go take a nap or something?
The little boy in the paper just grinned.
Some other things about my mother.
She liked burnt toast with margarine on a square of paper towel. She once threw a chair at a wall when she came home to find me watching TV against orders. A man came to fix the plaster and paint a few days later. The incident was never mentioned again.
She got sick when I was a baby, got better, got sick again in grade school, got slightly better, got sick again, did not get better. I wasn’t really in the loop. It’s fuzzy. No one told me shit. I had to pick up clues, figure it out. She got sicker and sicker. Dead the November of my seventh-grade year, months still to go before summer vacation, the stench of sickness and death coming off me all mixed up with puberty, that other treacherous decay.
Her photos are all over the place; this house is like a shrine: black-and-white baby in saddle shoes, blushing bride with bouffant and cinched waist. Strangely quiet in her late thirties, owl glasses reflecting the light from a window as she gazes down at me, newborn in her arms staring blankly back. It’s like an unhinged Mexican funeral in here. Even found this weird little painting of a skull at a thrift shop in Troy. All done in fluorescents, trippy.
My father knocked on my bedroom door the night it finally happened.
It’s over, sweetheart. It’s over. It’s finally over . He hugged me tight—too tight—and cried on my shoulder for a while before going out and closing the door behind him, leaving me to my silence and books and female folksingers. Anticlimactic, when it finally happened. I stayed up until dawn, but I couldn’t have told you why.
The whole class signed a condolence card. Herd of forced, off-kilter signatures: what pure, distilled humiliation. I had hoped to distinguish myself in other ways. It was embarrassing that my mother had died, that I was so human and pitiable. Everyone was nice to me, so false and bright. Her dying had nothing to do with me , I wanted to explain. I didn’t die!
But I had entered a different realm and would have to stay there indefinitely, in close proximity to death. There was an exoticism inherent in that; I just wasn’t sophisticated enough to go Goth with it.
I was let off the hook for the Jenny J assault (though her father did briefly, excitedly threaten to sue). I relished the way she cowered from me at school, eye turning from navy blue to purple and red to rot yellow. That’s right, bitch. Watch out. She tried to avoid me. I’d stare her down to torture her. It made me feel better.
Teachers spoke to me like I was a frightening robot whom the wrong tone or combination of words might short-circuit. In lieu of talking to me himself (at all, about anything), my father sent me to Jack, inaugural shrink, who squirmed a lot and said hmmm and those are powerful feelings , eyes darting at the clock over my shoulder.
Here is a little secret about grief, catastrophe, loss,
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