did it.” “That true?” my father said, no longer looking at me. My mother laughed a little. “Oh, I completely forgot about it. The excitement of the moment, I guess.” “What
are
you talking about?” My father came the rest of the way into the kitchen, went to the refrigerator, popped open a beer. “You’ll never believe it,” she said, back to him, hands buried in a bowl of something. “There was a rattlesnake out there. Four feet long, I’d guess.” “Horseshit,” my father said. “There aren’t any rattlers around here. Stop making excuses.” He sat at the table across from Martin, adjacent to me. Quietly, my mother said, “Well, I’m pretty sure it was a rattlesnake.” “Horseshit,” my father said again. “Female hysteria. And it’s still no excuse for leaving a gun lying around where anyone, one of the dogs, anything, might happen across it.” In a solemn voice he added, “You know, after what happened with Justin I’d have thought you’d be a little more responsible.” My mother washed her hands again, then went to her baking cabinet. She returned with a plate of browniesand set them heavily on the table. “Here,” she said. “Dinner won’t be ready for an hour. Might as well help yourself.” To my father she said, “It won’t happen again.”
Suddenly I was behind Martin’s eyes again, and the bandage over the left one gained new meaning. Half a picture, it must seem like.
What happened here?
I’d have asked myself if I were he: where’s the other half? Martin raised his milk to his mouth and drained the glass in one quick movement. I waited impatiently for him to ask his question, for my parents to try to answer it. But all he said was, “Need any help?” He spoke to my mother. My father laughed as if he’d just heard an absurd joke, then grabbed the brownies. “Make these in between shooting rattlers?” he said. “Or bears?” He laughed again, then left the room. Loudly, I said, “I told her I didn’t believe her.” Martin looked up at me. He seemed confused, but he turned away when my mother put her hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you join John and his father in the living room and watch a little TV or something while I finish dinner?” She picked up his glass. Her cheeks were red, her forehead damp. Then she reached her empty hand in her pants pocket and pulled out something. She fingered it once or twice noisily, then set it before me. “This is for you,” she said, and went back to the sink. The object on the table was semitransparent. Its thirteen beads were irregularly shaped, and it was pierced at the top by a braided length of dark blue thread. I slid it off the table as quietly as possible, but the beads announced themselves with each motion.Then, the rattle silenced in my pocket, I went to the living room. My father was wiping the chair seat and his backside. “Goddammit,” he said. “Dog hair everywhere.”
MARTIN SLEPT QUIETLY, though his body seemed incredibly hot. Maybe I just wasn’t used to anyone sleeping beside me. My father’s only comment about Martin’s continued presence was that he wasn’t going to have someone sleeping on his couch every night. Every half hour or so, Martin rearranged himself, arms, legs, which side he slept on. Once, he twisted about in bed, and when he’d finished one of his arms lay across my stomach. Crickets ground their legs together among the closed petals of the roses struggling on that side of the house. I could feel a line of sweat forming underneath Martin’s arm. He coughed once, then started snoring quietly. I tapped the rattle I’d tied to my neck and suddenly both he and the crickets were silent.
MY MOTHER TOOK the bandage off Martin’s face on a Wednesday, and all day Thursday I stared at the long curved scab that just chopped off his left eyebrow. By Friday I was used to it, just as I’d become accustomed to sleeping under his arm. On Saturday, as we were waking, I said, “Want to go
are
you talking about?” My father came the rest of the way into the kitchen, went to the refrigerator, popped open a beer. “You’ll never believe it,” she said, back to him, hands buried in a bowl of something. “There was a rattlesnake out there. Four feet long, I’d guess.” “Horseshit,” my father said. “There aren’t any rattlers around here. Stop making excuses.” He sat at the table across from Martin, adjacent to me. Quietly, my mother said, “Well, I’m pretty sure it was a rattlesnake.” “Horseshit,” my father said again. “Female hysteria. And it’s still no excuse for leaving a gun lying around where anyone, one of the dogs, anything, might happen across it.” In a solemn voice he added, “You know, after what happened with Justin I’d have thought you’d be a little more responsible.” My mother washed her hands again, then went to her baking cabinet. She returned with a plate of browniesand set them heavily on the table. “Here,” she said. “Dinner won’t be ready for an hour. Might as well help yourself.” To my father she said, “It won’t happen again.”
Suddenly I was behind Martin’s eyes again, and the bandage over the left one gained new meaning. Half a picture, it must seem like.
What happened here?
I’d have asked myself if I were he: where’s the other half? Martin raised his milk to his mouth and drained the glass in one quick movement. I waited impatiently for him to ask his question, for my parents to try to answer it. But all he said was, “Need any help?” He spoke to my mother. My father laughed as if he’d just heard an absurd joke, then grabbed the brownies. “Make these in between shooting rattlers?” he said. “Or bears?” He laughed again, then left the room. Loudly, I said, “I told her I didn’t believe her.” Martin looked up at me. He seemed confused, but he turned away when my mother put her hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you join John and his father in the living room and watch a little TV or something while I finish dinner?” She picked up his glass. Her cheeks were red, her forehead damp. Then she reached her empty hand in her pants pocket and pulled out something. She fingered it once or twice noisily, then set it before me. “This is for you,” she said, and went back to the sink. The object on the table was semitransparent. Its thirteen beads were irregularly shaped, and it was pierced at the top by a braided length of dark blue thread. I slid it off the table as quietly as possible, but the beads announced themselves with each motion.Then, the rattle silenced in my pocket, I went to the living room. My father was wiping the chair seat and his backside. “Goddammit,” he said. “Dog hair everywhere.”
MARTIN SLEPT QUIETLY, though his body seemed incredibly hot. Maybe I just wasn’t used to anyone sleeping beside me. My father’s only comment about Martin’s continued presence was that he wasn’t going to have someone sleeping on his couch every night. Every half hour or so, Martin rearranged himself, arms, legs, which side he slept on. Once, he twisted about in bed, and when he’d finished one of his arms lay across my stomach. Crickets ground their legs together among the closed petals of the roses struggling on that side of the house. I could feel a line of sweat forming underneath Martin’s arm. He coughed once, then started snoring quietly. I tapped the rattle I’d tied to my neck and suddenly both he and the crickets were silent.
MY MOTHER TOOK the bandage off Martin’s face on a Wednesday, and all day Thursday I stared at the long curved scab that just chopped off his left eyebrow. By Friday I was used to it, just as I’d become accustomed to sleeping under his arm. On Saturday, as we were waking, I said, “Want to go
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