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Show Bryan drinks the polish, the Japanese fly through KoleKole pass, Pearl Harbor far below, and the world changes, one in which the record no longer plays and you no longer live at the same address. A string of bad luck, my parents think, throwing their hands into the air with a shrug; the children outnumber the adults, what can you expect. That first winter gives way to spring, cherry blossoms bursting on the mall like popcorn, the moss in the front yard aflame with a green that seems impossible in the natural world, and we are building a deck onto the back of the house. The patio has been poured weeks ago, and we can ride our bikes and big wheels around its gritty surface. Scott and I take turns playing and helping my father. He is framing the deck, using two-by-sixes and long nails to carve out of the sky a place where we can enjoy the view to the woods high above the summer gnats. Each hammer-fall echoes against the bricks of the house, ringing over and over. When he misses, he curses the wood or the nails or one of us if we have caused a distraction. Our job is to hold boards for him, making sure the bubble in the level remains between the thin black lines. With each bang from the hammer, the board threatens to skitter and jump out of place. My father yells for us to hold them still. Hold them still. The bubble refuses to remain in bounds. Goddamnsonofabitch. That afternoon, building a deck where air used to be, my mother is not around. Perhaps she hauls dirt in the wheelbarrow or is making a run to the lumber yard down the 65 |
