Burning September by Melissa Simonson Page A

sometimes.  Could have been a whole day, since Dad slept on the couch.  He wouldn’t have noticed anything.  Anyway.  She slept a lot, so I didn’t really think anything of it until dinnertime.  Didn’t matter how bad she felt, every night at five, she’d start banging around pots and pans in the kitchen.  So I went up there.  At first I thought it was the sun hitting that red jewel curtain she had where the door should have been.  You remember that thing, right?  So I figured that’s what all the red was.  She paused to hand me the mojito glass, waited for me to take a slug and give it back.  Well, it wasn’t the jewel curtain.  I’d never been literally shocked dumb before.  And it was like time stopped, for a second.  The weirdest thing ever.  The only thing that made it start moving again was you calling me from the living room.  Anyway, there she was, dead as can be.  All pale.  Blood all over the sheets, crust in her eyes.  She would have been ashamed if she knew how she looked afterward, I mean, her robe had fallen completely open, and she was usually so modest.  God.  I’m glad you didn’t see her like that.  She leaned back on one hand, swilling the mojito with the other as she stared at the stars through layers of smog.  I never really cried.  Isn’t that weird?  I guess I knew it would happen eventually.  And all over some jackass.  She snorted.  Shook her head in mock wonder.  We need men like we need lobotomies. 
     
    I don’t know why she put up with him as long as she did , Caroline told me a few days later.  He was useless.  Slobbering drunk half the day.  Could barely take care of himself, let alone the three of us.  She could have done better in a heartbeat; you’ve seen her pictures.  Married some guy who actually had money or whatever.  I guess it was just that old world bullshit mentality.  Men are your betters.  All a woman has to offer is her body, she’s not worth anything more. What a piece of shit, you know, sometimes I think it was a blessing he died.  He’d have never been able to take care of you on his own.  You’d have fallen down a well or something, played in traffic. 
    Isn’t that a little harsh?   I’d asked, looking down at where she sat, cross-legged on the floor, poking at the keyboard of her laptop. 
    Whip off your rose tinted glasses, cupcake , she said, brow furled, eyes on the laptop screen.  Sixteen’s old enough to know your dad was an ass.  You know how drunk he was when I found her laying there?
    I think I remember how drunk he was after. I didn’t, but it was a safe bet.  He’d spent the better part of the seven years between our mother’s death and his own drunk. 
    She gave me the same look she gave the maintenance man after he’d asked her out.  You know what he said when I told him I found her fucking dead in bed?  Well, wait, he didn’t say anything.  Not at first.  He stumped up there on that stupid bad leg, stood there in the door for a minute like a goddamned mute, stumped back down, poured himself another drink, and said, Vell, maybe ve should call ze po-lize .” She spread her arms wide and shook her head.  “Seriously.  And that’s all the idiot ever said.”
    In a better Russian accent, of course.
    Whatever.  She slammed the laptop closed, scrunched her eyes shut for a moment, then climbed to her feet.  As far as I’m concerned, he was a big part of her death.  I hope that heart attack hurt.  She swept a sheet of dark blonde hair over her shoulder and swished out of the room.  Finish that history essay and let’s get the fuck out of here.  We’ll go to that stupid play Blake invited me to.
    Branden, I corrected. 
    Let’s keep in mind while we’re there, she called from the kitchen , not to make fun of any of the actors.  Inevitably their family members will be sitting right behind us.
     
    And any other mention of our mother came few and far between, sprinkled in with tarot