It was so simple, she thought while staring at the clear bottle of vodka, simple enough to drink one or two and wait. 

Waiting.  The Schmirnoff merely dulled and enhanced things.  It gave  her easy courage.  Farah slid casually down onto the couch.  A brown muzzle leaned in and a long pink tongue licked her face.  "I know I have you Logan," she crooned kindly to the dog.  The sleek brown boxer put her head in Farah's lap. 

She took a long pull on her purple tinted drink.  The ice tinkled playfully against the glass as she set her vodka down and stared out the window. 

            Perhaps he stayed late again to help clean up, she thought, or shoot some games of H-O-R-S-E with Geoff, the car could be acting up again.  The liquid was cool and tasted bitter as it went down her throat.  The phone rang and she was up and, startling Logan, across the room.

"Hello, Kaleb?" Farah said.

"He's not home again is he?" came the voice.

"Mother, oh hi, no he just ran out to the store,." Farah said quickly, realizing she left her drink in the other room.  Logan whined and followed her with slow clicking steps. 

 "When are you going to wake up, Farah? He's out fucking some young whore and you are just sitting there night after night."

"Mother, fuck you."

She slammed the receiver down and ripped the cord out of the wall.  Farah put her hands on the wall and focused on controlling her breathing.  Images of flat stomachs pulsed through her mind, and giggling young blondes, it was the giggling that got her.  The young pony tail tittering those little bitches made when they thought a boy was cute.  Sighing, she went back out into the living room, got her glass and sauntered back into the kitchen.  The white linoleum gleamed as she poured another.

            Logan's wet nose bumped her bare leg.  Absently, she petted the dog and sipped.

Farah wandered over to the window and sat down.

Logan followed and then laid at Farah's feet.

He should be home soon, she thought while fighting off the madness of why.  The why rang in her head with the silence. 

No, she thought, raising her glass, it's the how.

The how raged through in a rolling roar.

How did I get here, she thought while looking out into the night.

            3

             Why am I doing this, he thought, walking down the iridescent corridor.

The yellow double doors loomed ahead and white tiles stretched under white lights.

His expensive maroon shoes echoed endlessly like his thoughts. 

I am unhappy, he thought simply, I feel alive only when I'm with her, in her.

Kaleb could see her white stomach underneath him rippling with each impact.  Her gasps of breath on his neck with each thrust.  He sensed her brown dialated eyes burning into him as he clenched his eyes tight.  The anger burned within him.  A living flame she fanned with her hips and her grips on his body and mind.  She fed him and he lapped madly at her. 

Her gasps echoed . . .

He opened his eyes and stared at his shoes.  They moved forward one in front of the other the 

 stepping staccato of his feet pushed him to the doors.  

I can't go back, he stared at the doors.

The long lights buzzed above him.  His wife would be waiting at home, wanting to believe him, needing to believe him.  Her eyes, big and blue with the maddening wonder of why and where.  It was the belief that made him gag, the belief and the mirrors. 

I am a vampire, he looked down at his dark blue tie, I am dead and sucking the life of others.

Farah knew, but did not.  She had to. 

Kaleb loved Farah and Faith.  The gross parallel of twin truths greased with irony, lust and lying.  Or was he just fooling himself?  Was this some simple loathing game of self-disgust?  The inability to stifle the male gene?  He had never been on his own

Farah in white, filling the whole church with that smile, the gold bands of promise followed, one abortion and one miscarriage and two decades later here he was fucking the brains out of an almost 18 year old.

Kaleb shook his head and tried not to throw up.

She will be wearing red tonight, he shook his head again took a deep breath and pushed out into the night.

The doors boomed closed behind him.

 

4

Remote interaction.

My father flew. Per-fect-shun-ist is a F-16 fighter pilot in a 4 G turn. In the air, they tell me he was one of the best, on the ground, mortal. Family interaction was limited to discipline and athletics. My sister tried hard, but was petite. I could catch a ball before I could walk.
Ironically enough, she would have killed for the attention and I did not want it. The Air Force sent pilots off one what was called REMOTE. One year away from the States for combat readiness training and manning the bases over in the Middle East or Far East. One year stay without family or 2 years with family. My father went alone with the hopes of keeping us at the same school. One year later he returned and we were promptly transferred. My first meaningful interaction with my father after his return:

“17-15,” he flicked the ball to Kaleb, “Check.”
Kaleb bounced it once with sweat slick hands and passed the ball back to his father.
His father’s gleaming face glowed, “I’m going to teach you something about not letting up.”
Overcast skies watched Charles Cherry Smith crouch low and connect a shoulder into Kaleb’s chest. The impact pushed Kaleb’s wind and body out of the way for and easy lay up.
“ You gotta be physical son,” Chuck said with a smile tossing the orange ball back to Kaleb.
“ Check.”
Wordlessly, he passed the ball back to his father and got low with waiting.

“ 18-15.”
His father’s eyes glittered behind the Air Force regulation glasses and he bounced the ball slowly once, twice and then he came at Kaleb again. Kaleb got low and sprang forward with a squeak of shoes. Just before impact, his father spun, hooking Kaleb’s back with a vicious elbow.
Kaleb got his hands up before his face hit the blacktop. Gravel greeted his palms with blood.
He got up slowly, wiping red spots on his gray shorts.
“ You all right son?” his father asked walking over.
“ Check the ball and shut up,” Kaleb said furiously.
His father chuckled,
“ 19-15.”
The ball bounced with slow deception. It was just waiting, no, Kaleb thought, he was just waiting to spring and burst into violent action, to score, to rend.
Once, twice, three times and Chuck began to talk, “you think you are man enough at fifteen to talk that way?”
His father stopped, but the ball continued beating almost in time with Kalebs heart.
“ Let me show you, what it takes.”
He turned and backed into Kaleb suddenly.
Kaleb’s head snapped back, but he held his ground until the next shove.
Chuck drop-stepped his back foot into Kaleb and rounded with his shoulder,catching Kaleb in the jaw and knocking him back into the basketball pole. A flash of white and he was on the ground with the world buzzing, but he saw his father unhesitatingly put the ball in the basket.

“ 20-15.”

Kaleb got up and walked unsteadily to the freethrow line. “Check the ball,” he said thickly.
His father looked at him, “ You got a huge knot forming on your head, we’re done.”
He reached out to him and Kaleb slapped his hands, “Finish what you start.”
His father’s mouth formed a straight line
“ Check.”
He snapped the ball at Kaleb. It struck him in his chest. He caught it and threw it back at his father’s face.
His father caught it easily and effortlessly lifted it up, elbow in, and shot the ball.
The net snapped as the ball fell through.
“ Game.”
Kaleb didn’t remember much of the walk home, but he refused any help.
He struggled up the stairs to his room and passed out on his bed and awoke the next day in the hospital.
Concussion.

5

Listen,

Listen,

You can hear mother now . . .

"No I don't understand.   I will never understand why you did this to me."

I never heard his answer only the pause between my mother's sobs

And the plastic crack as the phone hit the cradle.

The deep breaths of composure and my mother's steel grin greet me.

"Don't you have homework honey?"

Yes, mother I had homework.  

I didn't understand.

16 years later, I glimpse the dragon.

I understand now.

"Hello dear, how are you?"

"Mother."

Kaleb circles the ice in a short glass tinkling music reaches out and ceases with a drink of brown liquid, "Fair to mad and midland."

She gives a light airy laugh.

Another drink, "I'm grand mother, grand. And you?"

"Well, Robert and I are doing fine."

Pause.

Kaleb sips again. 

"What are you drinking?" she asks casually.

"Grandpa's Kool-Aid," Kaleb said continuing the cyclic rattling.

"You know you can call me Kaleb."  

He stops.    His mother's words come over slowly,   "Whenever you need something you know all you have to do is . . ."

"I got it mom." 

"Anyway, when are you and Farah coming for a visit?"
The silence stretches out beyond the distance of their homes and intentions. It lies down in the aisle before Kaleb breaks it.

"Soon"

"Kaleb?"

He feels it coming like that long pause before a closed door.   The doorbell's echo has died only the approaching footsteps can be heard.

A moment of footsteps, Kaleb raises the cold glass between his lips, the fiery brown goes down,

"Yes mother?"

"Have you talked to your sister lately?"

"Short red hair, goofy with good intentions?"

"That's the one."

"No."

Here it comes, Kaleb thought, the wicked curveball, the seething pressure of family thrown right at the head.

She released sincerely, "Why?"

"I suppose next you'll ask me when was the last time I talked to Mister Chuck?" Kaleb replied evenly.

His mother met him unflinchingly,   "No."

Strike, the umpire gestures.

"Damn it mom," Kaleb pulls down the bottle of whiskey.

"She's your sister."

Kaleb waits and watches

"And she loves you."

Steeeeriiiiiiiikke, the ump pumps his arm with a final fist.

Sighing he pours another drink,

"Alright, mom, alright."

Sister Sarah.

Sister Sarah sallying down the polished aisle flanked by furniture.

Row upon row they span out to either side like cushioned soldiers, recliners, love seats, and couches at ordered attention.

Yes, attention in plush leather, firm suede or stuffed cotton.

Her dress heels clacked down on the tile despite the warm blue Saturday sky.

Sarah glanced at the passing clock, 8.02 am.

Late, lAte, laTe . . .

"Late," came a laconic voice.   Stiffening involuntarily Sarah had her small smile in place when she turned.  

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Apple." Sarah nodded apologetically and then continued on to the back of the store.

Mrs. Kate Apple's high forehead furrowed eyes widening for a moment.   Her long legs easily made up the ground on Sarah's short strides.

"Ms. Sinclair," Mrs. Apple's voice carried tightly under the stretched fluorescent bulbs.

Sarah pushed her bangs back from her eyes and reluctantly turned around again and watched Kate approach.

Tall and shapely she would have been considered attractive except for her hair.  

The stringy bland brunette tresses sat atop of her head like a nest for some nameless creature. During particularly long morning meetings Sarah often found herself watching Kate's hair and waiting, hoping for the creature to emerge.

  "Yes, Mrs. Apple?"

"This is the 2 nd time this month you've been late."

Kate looked at her expectantly, waiting.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Apple, I missed a few lights this morning."

Mrs. Apple's mouth opened for a moment then closed,

  "Pardon me?"

Sarah pulled her pupils down from the hair and sighed, "I've had a long, long week Kate."

Kate's brown eyes stared at her blankly.

"Pardon me?"

One more try.

"Kate, please,   I haven't been sleeping well and my grandfather is ill."

The glazed gaze continued briefly until the eyes focused and narrowed,

"From now on Ms. Sinclair you will sign in and out on a time card," The long finger began waving in front of her face, "if you cannot be responsible and get here on time like an adult, we will cease to treat you like one."  

Sarah watched the long red nail prance and glisten before her and then come to a stop. Expectant eyes waited again waited for her to fold, bend and grovel like always, to roll out the grocery list of excuses, apologies and compensations.   The bloody curved nail still hung before her like a promise, a plea, a shiny safety net that she could fall into, but . . .

No.

Sighing softly Sarah smiled, "Mrs. Apple come with me please."   She walked to the back of the store.

Silently Kate followed and halted in the doorway to Sarah's cramped office.

Sarah pointed to the large calendar that dominated the narrow wall.

"What names are listed for Saturday March, 3?"

Mrs. Apple just stared at Sarah.

Sarah tapped the calendar, "What names Kate?"

Clearing her throat she looked at the square, "Kate and Shelly."

Smiling Sarah said, "Thank you and what time is it now currently?"

Mrs. Apple brought her gold watch up,"8.11 am."

"Correct and is Shelly here yet?"

Kate's brown eyes shifted confusedly around the room, "No."

"Have you ever reprimanded Shelly for being late on a Saturday?"

Mrs. Apple shifted from foot to foot, "I don't see what-"

Sarah slammed her fist down on the desk, "Answer the question, " she said calmly.

Kate flinched and reflexively said, "No."

"Has Shelly been late before today?" Sarah continued.

Swallowing Kate began, "I don't recall I-"

Sarah's voice cut in, "I do, in fact, I have logged it for a while now.   There were 104 possible Saturdays to work over the last 2 years Shelly was scheduled for 40 Saturdays."

Sarah watched Kate's hair, "And do you know how many of those Saturdays that Shelly was on time?"

Kate licked her lips.

"I'll tell you Mrs. Apple 11.   She was on time 11 times in the last 2 years and do you want to know how many times she was reprimanded?"

"No."

Sarah slammed her fist on the desk again, "None."

She continued nonchalantly said,

"I've been scheduled 73 Saturdays over the last 2 years and do you know how many times I've been late including this month?"

Kate's eye began to mist.

Sarah placed her palm on the calendar and stared at her supervisor, "It's ironic how many times I've been late?"

Sarah waited watching the hair, but only tears came out of Kate's eyes.

"11?" Mrs. Apple said weakly.

"Very good Kate," she said without taking her eyes from the nest.

Sarah waited a moment longer, sighed disappointedly and said,

"Get out of my office."

She turned back to her desk and began tossing files into the trash.   The phone rang.

"Walsh's Furniture." she said, "Mom?"   Her hands stopped, "When?"

Long silence and then, "I'll tell Kaleb."  

Sarah hung up the phone and began to cry.

 

Continue to the Second and Final Half...