Rumble (5 page)

You might think religion would get more civilized, approaching the twentieth century. But no. We’ve all heard about the Nazi population cleansing. But few realize that Catholic priests and Muslim clerics were, at the same time, willing accomplices to the extermination of eight hundred thousand Yugoslav citizens—orthodox Serbians, Jews, and Roma, many torched alive in kilns. The ovens of a loving God.

Buddhist monks in Vietnam. The Tutsis in Rwanda. Bosnian Muslims. The list of those killed with the aid of so-called Christians goes on and on. Figure in the flipside—Muslims killing Christians in Indonesia and the Sudan, Khmer Rouge and Soviet Communist wipe-outs, the Turk massacre of Armenian Christians, not to mention the whole war-without-end in the Middle East—and what you come up with is one seriously bloodthirsty God, not a loving creator who urges forgiveness and peace.

No, mass destruction has nothing to do with God. It’s all about human lust for sex, for wealth, for power. Easier to lay culpability at the feet of some conjured being than admit such gluttony. Much easier to allow your priest or rabbi or imam to direct your inner murderer toward an agenda. Easiest of all to hide behind your cassock or thobe and order your flock to the killing fields where you can oversee the slaughter.

To blame such zealous hatred for your fellow man on an invention of the imagination is a display of cowardice. Were I to take someone out because of his religious posturing, I would assume full responsibility. Hell, I’d take ownership of the deed. . . .

My Eyes Stop There

Okay, I guess maybe that might

cause a little concern, especially

in this day and age of mass-shooting

scares. And I do own a gun. A lovely,

if totally deadly, Glock. But I only

use it for target practice, and despite

anything I wrote in that essay, or

the odd whim (they always pass by),

I’d never draw a bead on a human

target. Anyway, can’t these people

(who really should know me better)

tell I was just taking a firm stand?

“Really, you guys. I have absolutely

no plans to go off on anyone, not

even the assholes who might deserve

it.” Mom hmphs, but doesn’t comment.

Dad looks so relieved I can almost

believe he was actually worried

about me. But I know he’s just

in a hurry to get back to school

and his warm-ups.
That’s good to hear.

You know I don’t care about the God

stuff. But the rest . . .
He waits for me

to agree, and I do with a nod. But before

I can say anything, Mom flips out.

Well,
I
care about the God stuff.

Can’t you act like a man for once,

Wyatt, and tell your son to stop acting

all crazy and such? If you won’t, I will.

No one feels sorry for you, Matthew.

So quit, would you? Stop looking

for sympathy.
This time a big, sharp

stick of anger spears me right in

the eye, drawing water. “I never

asked you to feel sorry for me,

nor would I expect the tiniest

particle of sympathy from you,

Mother. Let alone affection. I mean,

why look for any now? Not like

you’ve ever been generous with love.”

I Turn Away

Before she can have the satisfaction

of seeing me cry. Damn, damn, damn!

I am a pussy. I start toward my room, call

over my shoulder, “Good luck tonight, Dad.”

I think he replies, but whatever he says

gets swallowed up in Mom’s meaningless

tirade. She just goes on and on and on,

and what is she so upset about anyway?

There’s so much I wish I had the strength to say.

Like: Hey, Mom, be sure to take a Prozac

before calling your preacher to bitch about me.

Like: Hey, Mom, I miss my little brother, too.

But what he did wasn’t my fault. And neither

was your screwing Dad latex-free and getting

pregnant with
moi
, so why the fuck do you

keep blaming
me
for ruining your life?

I Kick Off My Shoes

Consider leaving them there, in the middle

of the floor, one upside down, the other

sideways. But disorder irritates my mother

and downright pisses off Dad, especially after

a couple of drinks. I’ve been raised better,

that’s what he’d say. Which explains why

my bed is made, my tidy desk is dust-free,

my clothes folded and in the proper drawers.

I put my shoes in the closet, toes against

the wall, beside three other pairs of pricey

athletic shoes and one pair of heavy boots.

When I have my own place, will I be able

to leave them askew in the middle of the room,

or will my upbringing forever deny that?

Could I ever plop down on an underwear-

and sock-strewn sofa, settle into a nap?

The thing is, all this external order can’t quite

make up for the internal turmoil that is central

to my parents’ lives, and so to mine. It’s one

reason I need Hayden, who is my daily small

dose of tranquillity. I need her more than ever

with Luke gone. I send her a text, tell her

I love her. Ask her to forgive me for being

such a hothead. I don’t expect a quick answer.

Beyond the Door

The house has fallen silent.

Dad has returned to school

and the one thing he cares

about. Mom is gone, too.

Showing property this time

of day? She didn’t bother

to say, but the static energy

tells me she isn’t here.

For some reason, I’m drawn

to Luke’s room. Everything

is the same as it always was—

pin-clean, like mine, only

painted mauve (his favorite

color) instead of slate gray.

His absence presses down,

tangible weight on my chest.

I lie on his bed, sink

into a bath of eiderdown, turn

my face toward the window,

curtained gray with drips of

rain. “How could you, Luke?”

I whisper. “How could you

leave me alone with them?”

There’s a clock on the wall

shaped like a train. It ticks

audibly, and now it tells me

it’s the top of the hour with

a low whistle. Four o’clock.

Luke did love trains. When

we were kids, we’d often ride

our bikes along the tracks,

talking about where we’d go

once we got big enough.

We rode bikes everywhere,

especially in the summer

when the treetops nodded

at the urging of tepid breezes.

I close my eyes and find one

of our favorite spots on Mosby

Creek, in the shade of an old

covered bridge. We’d jump

into a still, cool pocket of river,

always wearing old sneakers

because of the goobers who

thought it was funny to trash

beer bottles against the rocks.

Then out we’d climb, teeth

chattering and goose bumps

raising into regular little hills.

And we’d laugh and laugh.

But Always

After the laughter came deep conversation,

at least as deep as it got for preadolescent

boys, meaning sometimes suprisingly so.

One Sunday we had escaped the house after

a visit from our Creswell grandparents. Dad

had gotten into it with them, hot and heavy,

over not making us go to church. He’d told

them in no uncertain terms that he would not

be coerced into indoctrinating his kids with

mythology designed to steal their pitiable

allowance pennies. I remember those words

specifically because I determined to ask him

for a raise in the near future. The only people

in the world Mom won’t confront are her parents,

and that was the case that day. The argument

was well out of hand when Luke and I exchanged

a “let’s get the hey out of here” look and sneaked

out the back door. We pedaled hard, just in case

someone had noticed, and when we finally skidded

to a stop in our usual place, were completely winded

and dripping sweat. “Let’s dive!” I said, and we did.

That Day

After the laughter subsided, we lay,

side by side, on a soft stretch of sand,

caring not at all that our backs

would be plastered with it.

Do you think there’s such a thing

as God?
Luke was probably eight,

which would have made me eleven.

“Nope. Why? Do you?”

I don’t know,
he admitted.
But lots

of the kids at school do. They get

mad when I say I don’t think so.

“People get mad over all kinds

of stupid things, Lukester. Don’t

pay any attention to them. They

don’t know one way or another.”

Yeah, but sometimes I wonder.

Dad says creation all comes down

to science, but he’s a science teacher,

so what else would he say? When I

think on it, I’m not so sure how it

can all be completely random.

Luke always was a little too smart

for his own good. “How what can

be completely random, dude?”

You know. Everything. The universe.

This planet. Life on this planet. How

did it begin? What made it evolve?

Why are people the smartest animals?

“Who says they are?” I tried to joke,

but he seemed totally perplexed.

I thought it over for a few.

“Know what I think? It all

comes down to aliens.”

I was, at the time,

into reading

Isaac Asimov

and Ray Bradbury.

Aliens?
Luke read a lot,

but sci-fi for eight-year-old

readers tends to lack

sophistication.
You think

God is an alien?

My First Reaction

Was a giant cough of laughter.

But then he looked so hurt, I figured

why not just make up a bunch of crap.

God was fiction, aliens, too. Why

couldn’t they be fiction together?

“What if aliens from the planet

Alphatrypton scanned the universe

for the perfect place to settle down

and create a new generation

of Alphatryptonites? And what if

their gigantic telescopes homed in on

the Blue Planet, which had excellent

water and decent weather, at least

compared to the encroaching ice

age on Alphatrypton?” His eyes lit up,

and he started nodding his head, and

then he added to the tale.
Yeah. And

what if they were magic? And when

they got here, they mated with monkeys

and then that made human beings?

Aliens Mated with Monkeys?

He had a better imagination than I, that

was for sure. But what the hell? I went

right along with it. “So maybe we’re not

earthlings at all. Maybe we’re ten

thousandth generation Alphatryptonites.

And maybe we have magic powers,

too, only our genes have forgotten them.”

He was quiet for a few. Then he said,

But you know what, though? What if

aliens came from more than one planet?

And some of those guys sucked. Like, they

were mean and stupid. And when they mated

with monkeys, the people who came from

them ended up being mean and stupid, too.

“That would explain a lot. Like, Mina

Boxer’s probably a ten thousandth generation

mean and stupid alien.” Mina’s our neighbor.

She wasn’t Luke’s worst bully, but she was

his first, almost like she recognized things

before the rest of us did. “But here’s the thing.

You and me? We’re Alphatryptonites. And we

have to try really hard to find our magic. Deal?”

Luke Agreed

But he didn’t stick around

long enough to find his.

A train wails a mournful

dirge. Train? I twitch awake.

The clock on Luke’s wall

whistles again. Six o’clock.

It’s dark in the room, only

the small night-light on

by the door to remind me

of the way out. Of this room.

Of sleep-induced memory.

Sorrow bleeds into the joy