Triangles (29 page)

that means. Cracked leather skin.

Pitted thighs. Watery memory.

Passing men without their noticing.

Envy sizzles, though I don’t care

about
her
. Don’t care about
him.

It is the
they
of them that plucks the jealous chord. They are what I want to be half of, and the half that I strive to be is why I run. And as I pass, I wonder 556/881

if they, one or both, have others,

waiting for half of them to come home.

EXACERBATING EVERY DOUBT

Is the day—my fortieth birthday.

Forty. Likely halfway to death,

and what do I have to show for it?

River rushing by repeats:

halfway, halfway, halfway.

A tidy little life. Decent husband.

Privileged kids. Showcase house.

Enviable lifestyle, looking in.

Distant traffic echoes:

tidy life, tidy life, tidy life.

But spend some time behind my

walls, you come to understand

the truth of living a cliché.

Crow on the high wire caws:

cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché.

I have no dreams that belong to

me. Not one personal goal to aspire to. No obstacles to conquer.

Breeze through the willows:

no dreams, no dreams, no …

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What happened to the girl who

believed her touch could demolish

the conventions choking the world?

THAT WAS ME, ONCE

I didn’t know exactly how I was going to do it, but I believed that I could. And that I would.

All I had to do was escape the straitjacket hold Mama and Papa had on me. Find my way beyond small-town rules and expectation to the freedoms a university afforded. Against heavy odds, I succeeded in that, and though I was still breaking trail, the journey had begun. And then I had to go and fall, butt over brains, in love.

Yes, I could have done worse than to tumble for Jace. But what I was too naïve to understand was the importance of self-discovery. Sucked up by the vacuum of filling him, I lost the essence of me. I should have known, having witnessed Papa unweave the tapestry of Mama’s dreams.

Filament by filament, it tattered into rags until she was eager enough for death to take her. What good is a tomorrow void of hope?

I’M NOT READY TO DIE

Not even close, but if I am halfway there, I’m damn sure going to do

some things first. I turn back toward where I parked my car, pick up my pace, composing my bucket list as I run:

One. Compete in and finish a marathon.

I don’t have to come in first or even in the top twenty, but I will not cross the line in the very back of the pack.

And so, I will train even harder.

Two. Experience things other people are afraid of. Skydiving. Bungee

jumping. Rafting class-four river

rapids. Maybe a taste of the S & M

scene. Maybe even more than a nibble.

Three. I will find Sarah Hill and demand to know if she is my mother. And if she is, I’ll ask her what she ever saw in a son of a bitch like Paul Driscoll, who won’t admit to sex with anyone but his wife.

Four. Remain open to possibilities, while doing my best not to damage

current relationships. But should it 561/881

come down to a choice between love

and responsibility, love will prevail.

BUCKET LIST COMPLETED

And run accomplished, I towel

off, head for home. When I get

there, I push loudly through

the door. The kids are planning

a surprise party for me. I, of course, know nothing about it, nor about

how tonight’s fancy birthday dinner with Jace is a total setup. Wink-wink.

I haven’t let anything on, not even to Jace. When I come in, the sneaks are in the kitchen, and when they hear me, their harried conversation quiets beneath a blanket of
Shshshshs.

“Hey, guys,” I call loudly. “Where

is everyone? Did you fix your

old mom a birthday breakfast?”

Uh, yeah,
Trace shouts back.

Special K, with a candle. I

can make you some toast with

ice cream too, if you want.

By the time I reach the coffeepot,

my children have attained covert

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status.
Thanks for reminding us
it’s your birthday,
says Brianna.

Yeah,
agrees Mikki.
We probably
would have forgotten all about

it. That would suck. How old

are you again? Oh, yeah, forty.

I give my sweet daughter a scathing look, pour a deep, black mug of coffee.

“Thanks for reminding me of
that.

It had almost slipped my mind.”

Trace comes over, gives me a bear

hug.
No worries, old woman. You
don’t look a day past thirty-nine
and three-quarters.
When did he grow into such a smart-ass, emphasis

on the “smart”? Takes after me

in that way, I suppose. “Keep

talking, and I’ll keep thinking up

ways to spend your inheritance

before I kick the bucket. Which

means, I guess, that I’ll have to hurry and spend it, since I’m getting so close.” Mik and Trace laugh, but Brianna

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is her usual serious self.
Do not say
stuff like that! Oh, and you stink.

Why don’t you take a nice bath?

SEMI-REBUKED

And totally amused, I agree to go

destink myself. First, I refill my mug, then head upstairs to my bedroom,

leaving the kids to their plotting.

Brianna was right. The scent of dried perspiration follows me, though I kind of like how it smells—like triumph.

I check my cell for messages. There are four.

From Jace:
I made six p.m. reservations
at Glen Eagles. Can we meet there?

How romantic. Maybe we should

go Dutch. The second is from Sahara:
Hey, girl. Call me. I want to shoot
something past you.
What’s up with her? Don’t need to know right

now. Next, a very subdued Andrea:

Can we talk? I need your advice.

Can’t remember the last time she

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asked for that! Finally, the person I wanted most to hear from. Bryan:

Can you get away Saturday night?

SATURDAY NIGHT

As the days go, one hovers above

the others when it comes to fun.

Sunday may run a close second,

being the favored day for resting,

but it’s really just a breather after Saturday

night

blazing. Those who value toil

above all else forget their shine

requires a weekly polish with

a healthy dose of play and Saturday is

when,

by and large, the most options

present themselves. Sidestep

every boundary, toss logic out

beyond the threshold, and

the

world

is just a marble spinning

on a plate of possibilities.

Little wonder, really, that

the man hell-bent on

making sense of it all often

goes

a little

crazy.

MARISSA

CALL ME CRAZY

Or, like Shane, call me ignorant

and self-absorbed, but I can’t help but wonder if his hooking up

with Alex, knowing the boy

is HIV positive, wasn’t just a way

to get back at Christian and me.

Or, at the very least, a way to

shake us up and seize our attention.

Shane says my concern is fake,

And anyway, he claims, HIV

is no longer an automatic death

warrant, but even if it was, he

never fails to use protection.

Condoms. Hardly infallible.

Why must he present me with

this kind of anxiety? Worry

has been a daily staple for four

years, and now the measure

has been doubled. Thanks, if

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the boys are to be believed,

to love. Young love. Young gay

love. My son’s young gay love.

Why is it harder to accept that

than to accept just plain “gay”?

GOD, I’M JUST SO SICK

Of digesting and redigesting

the facts of my life. Invariable facts that will not change, no matter how many times I regurgitate them.

I’m a one-trick camel.

I wish I could go back to flying.

Except, if I were wishing, and wishes did come true, I’d wish I could go back and become an airline pilot.

Not an aerial waitress.

And if I could take stuff back,

some other purser would have been

working first class that day, serving drinks and flashing cleavage.

I’d have been at the controls.

Only, there’s this. Changing

even the smallest moment means

every single thing about my life would no doubt be different. Everything.

Different isn’t necessarily better.

WHO KNOWS

Where I’d be without Shelby?

She keeps me grounded,

roots me firmly in

the “what is,” rather

than meandering

some “what could be.”

And every precious day

with her is a reminder

of the tenuous foothold

each of us has on this planet.

Who knows

what I’d be without Shane?

For every challenge

he tosses my way, the trade-off

is his indomitable spirit.

How he surrounds me

with it. The way it infiltrates

my pores. My cells.

I gave him birth, and yet,

he breathes life into me.

Who knows

who I’d be without Christian?

Would I be as strong?

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If I consider the breadth of our mutual years, must I not admit

that for every pain-infused minute, we shared twenty saturated with joy?

PHILOSOPHICAL MUSING

Is easy enough when the domestic

drama dies down and everyone

withdraws to their private corners.

An hour ago, everything blew to high heaven, the napalm being the news

about Alex’s HIV. I tried to keep it from Christian. But he happened to walk in on me, working at my computer. And up

on the screen was an HIV informational website. He thought the worst at first.

Of course, so did I. But while I reacted with fear, concern—anger, even—Christian, who was already well on his way to

drunk, detoured all the way to righteous.

A half-full tumbler of scotch in one hand, he marched straight to Shane’s room.

It was, of course, locked.
Open up!

he yelled at the wood. Shane, who was still sleeping off Friday night, took too much time.
Goddamn it, you little shit.

Open this fucking door. By the time
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Shane dragged himself out of bed and complied, Christian was agitated. He grabbed Shane by his tee shirt.
Are you plain stupid?

Shane fell straight into smart-ass.
Is
there another kind of stupid? Like,
uh, fancy stupid? Or beautiful stupid?

Christian gave the shirt a yank. The motion sloshed whiskey out of the glass and down the front of him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Shut up. What the hell are you doing?

Trying to die? You can’t mess around
with HIV. The husky-voiced sentences
blurred around the edges.
AIDS is
God’s way of saying “gay” is a very bad
choice. Emphasis on the last word.

Shane remained unmoved.
Do you

know how Alex contracted HIV, Dad?

He was raped. Held down, choked,
and sodomized by his stepfather’s
brother. Good ol’ Uncle Stu. No
choice in that, Dad. None at all.

Christian turned a dozen shades of red.

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But he didn’t back down or apologize, though he did let go of Shane’s shirt.

He stalked to his room, changed his clothes, and slammed out the door with a parting
I’ve got some work to finish up.

THAT INEBRIATED

I’m pretty sure he won’t get much

work done. What he really needs,

I think, is some private room to

process today’s information slam.

He shouldn’t drive in that condition, of course, though I suspect he’s had a lot of practice. And what’s a wife to do? Try to wrestle the car keys

from his hand? I could worry. Should.

But what good would it do to shovel shit on top of manure? Shane remains sequestered in his room. I knock.