Rumble (14 page)

She’s good. She’s very good. “Come

on, Martha. Why ask questions you

already know the answer to? Besides

our resident Bohemian woods dwellers,

Cottage Grove is a relatively conservative

community. All those factory workers

may love their weed and claim to be all

about equal rights, but let’s face it.

We’re eighty percent white-bread here,

and don’t much talk about which way we

lean, and if you figure high school jocks

into that mix, this wasn’t a great place

for Luke to come into the world gay,

you know? Man, I begged him to play

straight, and he acted the part pretty

well. Whatever his attraction, it’s not like

he was out cruising for boy dates anyway.

He was too young to have the first idea how

to go about such a thing. But then the wrong

person overheard the wrong conversation,

and that person, well, as I’m sure you’ve

already intuited, he was supposed to be

my friend, but that’s how the whole thing

got started and . . .” Vince and I were

pretty great friends growing up, in fact.

We ran in a pack—Marshall, Vince, Doug,

and me. Luke always wanted to tag along,

which would have been okay had I been

in charge. But the other guys didn’t think

he could keep up and were mortified

to have a little kid attached like a tail

whenever there were girls around,

especially since most females found

Luke just “so darn adorable.” Then, as

we got older, my buddies and I were doing

things no younger brother should witness.

“Yeah, I was defriended because of Luke.

Obviously they weren’t very good friends.”

Only Marshall didn’t blink an eye,

mostly because, big confession, his favorite

uncle is gay:
Big effing deal. Why should

I care if Uncle Ken is in love with a dude?

It’s not like he gives me all the filthy

details. And man, can that Taylor cook!

Tell Luke to be sure and find someone

who knows how to make homemade

pizza.
See, that is why I love Marshall.

But I leave that off the table. “Anyway,”

I tell Martha, “I still have decent friends,

not to mention a girlfriend to die for.”

Tongue Slips

Are making this conversation

so tiresome. Martha stares at me

quizzically. “Not literally expire

for. Man, can’t I use a colloquialism

without inspiring paranoia?”

No comment. Instead, she asks,

What about your nightmares?

I could lie, but what’s the point

of therapy if I don’t admit, “I still

have them from time to time. But

not nearly as often as I used to.”

She looks unconvinced.
When

was the last time you had one?

Confession, I’ve heard, is good

for the soul. And that’s why I’m here,

isn’t it? “A couple of days ago.”

Her gray head nods expectation.

Did something specific trigger it?

Just hours ago I was dying—er,

I mean, anxious—to discuss Hayden

with an impartial third party. Yet, now

reluctance forms like a big glob

of phlegm in my throat. “I—uh—I’m

not sure. Maybe it’s because . . .”

Oh, what the hell? “I think it had

something to do with Hayden. We got

into a couple of arguments and I started

thinking about losing her. I don’t know

if I could handle losing someone else.”

I hate to point this out, but loss

is inevitable. You’re young and . . .

Even as my mouth spills the words

“I know,” my head swivels side to

side in the negative. “Okay, I know

we’re young. But why does that have

to mean we can’t last? Some people

who fall in love in high school stay

together for the rest of their lives.

Why couldn’t that be Hayden and me?

I hate how people make promises,

then turn around and break them.

I hate how everything good turns

to shit eventually. I hate when . . .”

I’m Panting Anxiety

Wheezing air like I just completed

a dozen wind sprints, Dad yelling

at me to
hurry. Move it. Why can’t you

run like your brother?
Yeah, Dad.

Luke outran me all the way to hell,

which is about the time I started getting

mild anxiety attacks. Guess I’ll have to

catch up to him there. Martha sighs.

Deep breaths, Matt. In.
Pause.
Out.

Pause.
Remember what I showed

you last time.
She lifts her hands,

rotates her palms upward for in. Pause.

Turns them toward the floor for down.

Directing my breathing like a symphony.

It’s fascinating to watch, and without

really thinking about it, I collect myself—

oxygen intake and blood pressure start

to normalize, and I can breathe comfortably

again. “Man. You are really good.

Do you come in a portable model?”

She grins.
The whole point of therapy

is giving you the necessary tools to use

on your own, so a portable me is

unnecessary. You should be practicing

this exercise at home. Proper oxygen

intake always makes a person process better.

I almost hesitate to return to our earlier

discussion, but why are you worried

about losing Hayden? You obviously

care very much about her. Do you not

think she feels the same way about you?

She sits patiently while I consider

the straightforward question. “I do,

at least most of the time. But lately

we seem to argue a lot, and since I know

you’ll ask, over ludicrous stuff like jealousy.”

The Soft Chime

Of an alarm means our session

is technically over. Technically,

because Martha refuses to honor

alarms. She shuffles in her seat.

Our time’s up, I know, but

I can’t let you go without

saying that jealousy is far

from being ludicrous.

It’s the impetus for many

bad things, including breakups.

And now we slip into a short,

terse-because-we’re-already-

running-a-few-minutes-late Q & A.

Q:
Who’s jealous? You or her?

A: “Both of us, actually.”

Q:
Are the reasons real or imagined?

I almost say hers are invented,

mine one hundred percent spot-on,

but that even sounds warped to me. So,

A: “I really wish I knew.”

Beyond the Inner Sanctum Door

There is noise in the waiting room.

Martha’s next victim is also running

a little late, which gives Martha

the leeway to add,
Well, since I can’t

talk to Hayden, you’ll have to do it. Open

up. Tell her what’s bothering you,

without accusation. Discourse is a two-way

street, though. Be sure to ask what’s on

her mind, and listen without comment

until she’s finished. Communication

is the key to success in any relationship,

but you have to be forthright. Love is a fragile

thing, easily destroyed by dishonesty.

Just remember to be honest with yourself

first. Otherwise, there’s really no point.

She smiles at my obvious eye roll, stands

to let me know I have been dismissed.

All right, then. Go forth. Cause no mayhem.

Decent Session

I leave, feeling marginally better

about myself, Hayden, even my lack

of friends. They were nothing

but deserters, and who needs

traitorous pals blurring the focus

of your life? Perspective. That’s exactly

what I needed today, and Martha is great

at allowing me a broader view without

accusing me of being a freak for not

having it in the first place. She’s okay.

I wish Mom would talk to her instead

of bending her pastor’s ear, expecting

the dude to be a human conduit to

the Great Therapist in the Sky. But

my parents seem to believe therapy

is only useful when you’re young

and not quite over your brother’s

suicide. What about the self-inflicted

death of your favorite son? At least,

your favorite until it turns out he’s gay.

I Almost Call Martha Myself

When I get home and find Mom well

on her way to an alcohol-fueled meltdown,

instead of busting her butt not selling real

estate due to the economy. She’s in the den,

knees tucked beneath her on the window

seat, and the gentle light through the glass

does nothing to soften the blotchiness

of her face. She’s been crying for a while.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, certain

I don’t want to hear her answer

or jump into this conversation.

Too late.
He. Wants. To leave. Me,

Matthew.
Tobacco spices her breath,

and gin punctuates the sentence.

“Dad?” Ridiculous question, like,

duh, she means Dad. “Did he say so?”

She coughs up a laugh.
He never

says anything, does he? Not even

when Luke . . .
Fresh tears splash

from her eyes.
No, he hasn’t said

so yet. But he will. And I don’t know

what I’ll do when he finally finds

the guts to tell me that’s what he wants.

What Would Martha Say?

I draw from today’s session, put on

my best therapist face. “I have no idea

exactly what brought this on, but just

today I was informed by an expert that

communication is the key to every

relationship. Why don’t you just ask

him if that’s what he’s got on his mind?

I mean, there’s no use stressing over

something that may not happen at all.

And even if that is his plan, isn’t it

better to know for certain now, rather

than wait for him to spring it on you?”

She regards me with swollen eyes.

It isn’t real until he makes it real. Until

then, it’s better to worry in private.

I should just let it drop, but what

the hell, I’ve got a little time to kill,

and I shouldn’t be the only one forced

to regurgitate his secrets. “I’m going

to be real direct here, Mom. Seems to

me you and Dad haven’t had much

of a relationship for a long time.

Would it be the end of the world

if the two of you got a divorce?”

Her body visibly tenses.
I need

a cigarette.
She straightens her legs,

preparing to stand, but takes the time

to answer.
No, Matthew, the world

wouldn’t end. But I can’t let that

happen, because then, he’d win.

Not sure which Mom I hate seeing

more—the broken-down blubbering

one, or the steel-hearted bitch.

I watch the latter go off in search

of a nicotene fix, and as I get to my

feet, notice a newspaper Mom left

folded back to the announcements

page. My eyes skim for offending

news, settle quickly on a divorce notice:

Plaintiff Lorelei Crabtree versus

Defendant Dale Crabtree . . .
Lorelei.

Dad’s old girlfriend just became free again.

Which, to a Point

Explains Mom’s weeping jag.

But I still don’t know

if she was crying from fear

that Dad might leave her

or crying from anger because

now it might be a little easier