? ? ?
When we boarded the plane, Mom said I was supposed to sit with Dad and she would sit with Bruce.
“I want to sit with Bruce!” I said. “That way you and Dad can sit together.”
“I’m sitting with Bruce,” she said.
It didn’t make any sense to me then.
It was the beginning of what I would eventually end.
The answers were never on the airplane. The answers were right there in Dad’s fist. In Bruce’s jaw. In Mom’s eyes. The answer was there. I didn’t see it because how do you even guess that kind of shit about your own family? How do you even guess that you will be the last to know about everything? How do you even guess that your parents were stupid enough to build a thirteen-million-peso windmill for people who would never be able to use it?
The flight home—Mexico Day Seven—was the last time I would see Bruce until I was sixteen years old. Dad didn’t say a word the whole day. Not in the plane, not in baggage claim in Philly airport, not in the taxi on the way back to our house, not even when I showed him my magic José Guadalupe Posada Day of the Dead cube.
I didn’t want to talk to him really. Not after what he did to Bruce.
I wished he would have been eaten by a crocodile in Mexico—a white cross on the side of the road.
I was ten. This was a reasonable wish.
Be Reasonable
Whatever is going on in the house sounds a little like Dad getting eaten by a crocodile. He’s not fighting the police or anything, but there’s a lot of noise. I think they’re moving the furniture back into place.
“I don’t think he can get arrested for wrecking his own house,” I say.
Bruce says, “I told them what’s going on.”
“I can’t believe you went in there,” Mom says.
I can’t believe I went in there either. This is going to sound crazy, but I think I went in so Dad would finally hit me. So I wasn’t left out. So I wasn’t the last to know.
Bruce says, “Let’s go in and talk. If we do it with them here, then it will go on record, they can arrest him, and we can get on with our day.” Mom sighs. Bruce hugs her lightly.
We find Dad and the two cops putting things back together. One cop is taking a picture of the broken kitchen window. The other one is talking to Dad about his temper. He asks him if he’s ever hit Mom or us. Dad lies. Dad says no.
Bruce says, “He’s lying.”
“What the fuck are you even here for?” Dad says. He almost growls. “I kicked you out six years ago for what you did to your sister.”
“Don’t believe a thing that man says,” Mom says. She’s ER-night-nurse calm—she knows the cops and the cops know her.
The adults move into the kitchen to talk. I sit on the couch and hear random words. Pack. Paperwork. Divorce. Sarah. Safe. Dad paces with his arms crossed, taking advice from the police officer to stay quiet and let his wife talk. I can see him only when he passes by the door. He doesn’t notice that I’m sitting here. Mom stays in clear view of the doorway. I think she does it on purpose so I can see her. She is expressive and stands as if she were dealing with a hospital family who needs assurance. Out. One day at a time. Pack. Safe. Sarah. Lies. Bruce. Lies. This is the Mom Earl knew.
Dad sounds like a crocodile. “You can’t kick me out of my own house!”
More muttering. More calm talking from the police, from Mom, and even from Bruce. Ruined the house. We were outside. Sarah’s owl. Safe. Sarah.
“I didn’t hit her!” Dad says.
I pick up the pieces of my umbrella and my owl from the living room floor and walk into the kitchen.
“That’s what he did to my umbrella,” I say, dropping the shards of evidence on the kitchen table. “And that’s what he did to my art project.” I point to the pieces of the ceramic owl. I don’t tell them he twisted my wrist because I still can’t believe he twisted my wrist.
Maybe that’s why I never said anything about Miss Smith and Vicky-the-grand-prizewinner. Maybe I still can’t believe what I saw.
The police stand in the middle of the tiny kitchen. They are huge in every way. They are both over six feet tall. They’re filled out with muscles and uniforms and guns. They wear hats and badges and shiny shoes.
“You made that stupid owl when you were a kid,” Dad says.