I siphoned in the fresh air trying to stay awake, city twinkling as the oldsmobile descends sharply down the birthday hill. I could cover my thumb over the grocery store where my parents shop, the iron tower that rose like a black scarecrow next to it, the church with the hunchback bells, home. I lifted my grip from the steering wheel, eased off the accelerator.
Locusts thumped against the grill.
Greeting me, my wife walks in the living room holding a crying newborn, her voice caught between joy and the bearer of bad news “Me and Peter had a baby.”
“Who’s Peter?”
Peter would not leave. He sat in my chair, calming the child in a practiced rock.
By morning Mother had also arrived home, not having graced the entrance for years; she sat outside in the backyard under a tree see-sawing in and out of reality. She wore a body hose that tightly snapped around her petite frame. Breasts were clearly visible.
Father fretted, watching out the back porch door. I fiddled with the radio dial trying to locate a soundtrack to our malaise. I found if I tweaked it just right, just past 99.7 hertz, the frequency made me deaf and the deafness helped elevate pain, physic or otherwise.
Mango steam whiffed into the hallway from the bathroom, the hot shower pouring down Tiffany’s perfect skin. I admired her through the cracked door. Outside the corner streetlamp which normally ran on a timed cycle permanently blinked red. I heard gunshots.
He waved the silver colt, muttering something about happiness, the pursuit of and nothing stopping him. Mother’s lover clinging to life, managing to drag himself through the daylily garden and up the short steps where Mother cradled him, rocking back and forth, sometimes there sometimes not.
We had to fight our way through the angry bystanders to reach the car, most of them paid heed sliding to the sidewalks hearing the engine rev hard in neutral, but some didn’t make it feeling the soft thumps drum the grill like locusts. We sped the canal road against the current leading us to the headwaters of Squawk River. I made a pine bough lean-to and buried Father in autumn leaves in preparation against the cold front still somewhere to the south.
The campfire spit like horsetails in the final flourishes of October. A brave coyote visited carrying in its jaw my cat Scarlet, dropping her at my feet as a warm gesture of loyalty. It was too late to cry over her. I handed the dog a piece of bluegill and he submitted to the ground beside me.
I picked up a wind-tossed newspaper and began seeing patterns within it, numbers that charted the constellations, alignments that decide one’s fate. I took out a pencil attempting to write my horoscope, but it didn’t add up. Today I was meant to be happy. Lawrence Welk bled out the laptop speakers dulling the senses drawing me to the edge of sleep.
Angela turned toward me flashing her collection of porcelain birds that dangled from buttons on the inside of her frock, promising if I picked one we’d be lovers for life. I had been struggling with her ugliness all day, however as the night progressed, the prettier she became.
“I’ll take the bird of paradise.”