background, but that’s about as creepy as it gets.
The cooler is under Dad’s camping equipment.
At first, I just stare. I am ambushed by a memory. It was two summers ago. I was at the beach with Mom, who was skinny then, and Dad, who would not live through the winter. I raced Dad to the pier, and I won. Seagulls were everywhere. Mom had filled the cooler with bologna sandwiches and cans of pop. She kept saying she was gonna “get a tan, dammit,” and Dad told her not to use vegetable oil, because he didn’t want to her turning into a lobster. I waded in the water, but it was kind of cold. It was going to be a goodday, a family day, and I felt luckier than Charlie then, because my dad would never snap his belt at me, would never pass out drunk on the couch with a lit cigarette.
But the day got cut short. A sudden storm rolled up on Lake Erie. The entire sky turned the color of dirty aluminum. A cold, hard rain began to fall. Mom picked up the blanket, and we all started running. Dad had the cooler. I had Mom’s beach chair. We were all giggling. We took Highway 5 home, past Bethlehem Steel and the Coast Guard base, over the Skyway bridge. Mom turned the radio up and sang in her bluesy voice. I can’t remember what the song was, and it bothers me that I can’t remember.
Dad was the last person to carry this cooler. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want to be the one to wipe his fingerprints away.
“It’s about time,” Mom says to me. “I thought you got lost down there.” She makes me take the cooler out back and rinse it with the hose. Then she makes me put a T-shirt on. “You’re not going to the Kuperskis’ in swim trunks. You’ll look like a hillbilly.” Never mind how she’s wearing puffy Windbreaker shorts and a MERV’S HOT DOGS T-shirt big enough to be a pop-up tent.
I walk to the back porch and turn on the hose. I rinse dried grass and a suspicious gooey pink stain from inside the cooler. I flood a couple of anthills, just because I can. I am pretty much in a daze. Dad is on my mind, no matter how hard I try to push the thoughts away. I could stand here forever, just letting the water run and run and run.
“Jason! How long does it take to rinse out a cooler?” Mom says. “Charlie’s on the phone.”
I turn off the faucet. I’m supposed to coil the hose over a hook on the side of our house, but that’ll take too long. As a rule, Charlie doesn’t hold on the line for more than a minute or two, if that. I leave the hose in a sloppy heap and jog back to the house.
“Holy loudness. What’s going on over there?” Charlie asks. He’s eating something crunchy.
“My aunt Ellen just pulled up in her crappy car. You’re supposed to be on your way over here. Is Cornpup with you?”
“He’s sick again.”
“Oh. Did you get the candy?”
“Nope. Randy wouldn’t take me to the store. But we have Popsicles in the freezer.”
“Those’ll be good,” I say. “But hurry up. My mom’s making me do stupid little jobs around the house.”
Charlie hangs up without saying goodbye.
Mom says, “Do you want to tell me who kept calling at all hours last night? Was that Charlie?”
“No,” I say. “Some little kids found our number in the phone book, is all.”
Ellen, who is skinny, walks into our house without knocking. She’s carrying a casserole dish in one hand, and my little cousin, Bryan, on her hip. She says, “Lynn, you’re going to be hot in that big old T-shirt,” and I shoot her a dirty look, because I don’t care if it’s nine thousand degrees outside; Mom should be wearing more clothing, not less.
“Wow, so you’re going to be a high schooler in a couple of months,” Ellen says to me. “Are you excited?”
“Not really,” I say, but she’s only half listening.
Mom runs into the bathroom to change. She comes out wearing a one-piece bathing suit and the same pair of Windbreaker shorts, but
without
a shirt. She embarrasses me constantly. I don’t get a
The cooler is under Dad’s camping equipment.
At first, I just stare. I am ambushed by a memory. It was two summers ago. I was at the beach with Mom, who was skinny then, and Dad, who would not live through the winter. I raced Dad to the pier, and I won. Seagulls were everywhere. Mom had filled the cooler with bologna sandwiches and cans of pop. She kept saying she was gonna “get a tan, dammit,” and Dad told her not to use vegetable oil, because he didn’t want to her turning into a lobster. I waded in the water, but it was kind of cold. It was going to be a goodday, a family day, and I felt luckier than Charlie then, because my dad would never snap his belt at me, would never pass out drunk on the couch with a lit cigarette.
But the day got cut short. A sudden storm rolled up on Lake Erie. The entire sky turned the color of dirty aluminum. A cold, hard rain began to fall. Mom picked up the blanket, and we all started running. Dad had the cooler. I had Mom’s beach chair. We were all giggling. We took Highway 5 home, past Bethlehem Steel and the Coast Guard base, over the Skyway bridge. Mom turned the radio up and sang in her bluesy voice. I can’t remember what the song was, and it bothers me that I can’t remember.
Dad was the last person to carry this cooler. I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want to be the one to wipe his fingerprints away.
“It’s about time,” Mom says to me. “I thought you got lost down there.” She makes me take the cooler out back and rinse it with the hose. Then she makes me put a T-shirt on. “You’re not going to the Kuperskis’ in swim trunks. You’ll look like a hillbilly.” Never mind how she’s wearing puffy Windbreaker shorts and a MERV’S HOT DOGS T-shirt big enough to be a pop-up tent.
I walk to the back porch and turn on the hose. I rinse dried grass and a suspicious gooey pink stain from inside the cooler. I flood a couple of anthills, just because I can. I am pretty much in a daze. Dad is on my mind, no matter how hard I try to push the thoughts away. I could stand here forever, just letting the water run and run and run.
“Jason! How long does it take to rinse out a cooler?” Mom says. “Charlie’s on the phone.”
I turn off the faucet. I’m supposed to coil the hose over a hook on the side of our house, but that’ll take too long. As a rule, Charlie doesn’t hold on the line for more than a minute or two, if that. I leave the hose in a sloppy heap and jog back to the house.
“Holy loudness. What’s going on over there?” Charlie asks. He’s eating something crunchy.
“My aunt Ellen just pulled up in her crappy car. You’re supposed to be on your way over here. Is Cornpup with you?”
“He’s sick again.”
“Oh. Did you get the candy?”
“Nope. Randy wouldn’t take me to the store. But we have Popsicles in the freezer.”
“Those’ll be good,” I say. “But hurry up. My mom’s making me do stupid little jobs around the house.”
Charlie hangs up without saying goodbye.
Mom says, “Do you want to tell me who kept calling at all hours last night? Was that Charlie?”
“No,” I say. “Some little kids found our number in the phone book, is all.”
Ellen, who is skinny, walks into our house without knocking. She’s carrying a casserole dish in one hand, and my little cousin, Bryan, on her hip. She says, “Lynn, you’re going to be hot in that big old T-shirt,” and I shoot her a dirty look, because I don’t care if it’s nine thousand degrees outside; Mom should be wearing more clothing, not less.
“Wow, so you’re going to be a high schooler in a couple of months,” Ellen says to me. “Are you excited?”
“Not really,” I say, but she’s only half listening.
Mom runs into the bathroom to change. She comes out wearing a one-piece bathing suit and the same pair of Windbreaker shorts, but
without
a shirt. She embarrasses me constantly. I don’t get a
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