your arms and carried her away, put her in a place where she could get the help she needed, where she wouldn’t find a way to meet guys like you, Freddie, you fucking cocksucker. You made eye contact with us. We nodded our heads and mouthed that we loved you. We went to Farrell’s afterward and ate hot fudge sundaes. You told us stories about your sister. You told us she lived in regret. You told us her negativity propelled her toward drugs and guys like Freddie who would rather kick her fucking ass than kiss her on the lips. When Mom said not to use such language in front of us, you said, “You remind me of her a lot, Sally. You really do. That’s not a compliment.”
We remember Jack Merken. Jack wore velour. Jack went to Purdue on a basketball scholarship in some nebulous, yellowed past, but that didn’t stop him from wearing Purdue sweatshirts and Purdue T-shirts and velour pullover V-neck sweaters with a tiny Purdue logo stitched over the chest. Jack Merken owned a limo service and said he had a house up in Tahoe. Every time he came to pick up Mom, a long, black limo would pull up in front of our house. “Jack’s here,” we’d say, watching him through the living room window, his shadow barely visible as he slid through the opening between the front seat and the back seat so he could get out through the back passenger door. The neighbors would come out onto their front porches to see who was in the limo, because this was in the 1970s and not just anyone could get a limo, unless you had $75 to spend for the evening. We got to drive in the limo once. It was raining, and we pounded on the master bedroom door to let Mom know we needed a ride to school, that all of us would be drenched if we walked, that there was lightning
that might kill us. Jack came to the door. “Your mom says to ask the neighbors for a ride,” Jack said, “but why don’t I take you?” We climbed into the back of the limo and it was nothing like we imagined. The seats were once crushed red velvet, but now they were crusted and hard, black electrical tape keeping them together in places. It smelled of perfume and cigars and something like vinegar, but more pungent. We found a bra on the floor. We found a high-heeled shoe. We found Marlboro butts in the ashtray. We found handprints on the back window. We found Jack staring at us through the dividing window at the stop sign on the corner of our street. It looked like he wanted to cry, or he wanted to cough, or he wanted this moment in his life to end, because he just kept staring at us before finally saying, “I’m sorry. You guys should just walk.”
You took us for lobster on the day your unemployment ran out.
We remember Dan Kern. Dan was our stepfather for six months. Dan was a lawyer. Dan spoke German fluently. Dan wore bikini underwear long before it was fashionable. Dan had three children from a previous marriage, though all of them were adopted. Steven, Bonnie, and Lyle came to live with us on weekends, sharing our rooms, eating our Pop-Tarts, changing the TV from reruns of The Brady Bunch to reruns of Get Smart without even asking. Dan didn’t particularly care for the fact that we didn’t call him Dad. He asked us if we loved him. We said no. He asked us why not. We told him we didn’t even know him. Mom told us he was going to adopt us, and we were going to change our last names, and that Dan was going to get full custody of his kids and we’d all
live together in a big house in Pacific Heights. Then Steven beat up his grandma with a broomstick and told everyone that Johnny Carson told him to do it. Then Bonnie brought a Ouija board to our house and started taking her top off around us, which caused problems, because we weren’t related and we were young and we knew from the shaking wall that there was possibility in all of this, that we could all scream our names and no one would know what it meant but us. Then Lyle showed up at homecoming dressed as a woman, and we found
We remember Jack Merken. Jack wore velour. Jack went to Purdue on a basketball scholarship in some nebulous, yellowed past, but that didn’t stop him from wearing Purdue sweatshirts and Purdue T-shirts and velour pullover V-neck sweaters with a tiny Purdue logo stitched over the chest. Jack Merken owned a limo service and said he had a house up in Tahoe. Every time he came to pick up Mom, a long, black limo would pull up in front of our house. “Jack’s here,” we’d say, watching him through the living room window, his shadow barely visible as he slid through the opening between the front seat and the back seat so he could get out through the back passenger door. The neighbors would come out onto their front porches to see who was in the limo, because this was in the 1970s and not just anyone could get a limo, unless you had $75 to spend for the evening. We got to drive in the limo once. It was raining, and we pounded on the master bedroom door to let Mom know we needed a ride to school, that all of us would be drenched if we walked, that there was lightning
that might kill us. Jack came to the door. “Your mom says to ask the neighbors for a ride,” Jack said, “but why don’t I take you?” We climbed into the back of the limo and it was nothing like we imagined. The seats were once crushed red velvet, but now they were crusted and hard, black electrical tape keeping them together in places. It smelled of perfume and cigars and something like vinegar, but more pungent. We found a bra on the floor. We found a high-heeled shoe. We found Marlboro butts in the ashtray. We found handprints on the back window. We found Jack staring at us through the dividing window at the stop sign on the corner of our street. It looked like he wanted to cry, or he wanted to cough, or he wanted this moment in his life to end, because he just kept staring at us before finally saying, “I’m sorry. You guys should just walk.”
You took us for lobster on the day your unemployment ran out.
We remember Dan Kern. Dan was our stepfather for six months. Dan was a lawyer. Dan spoke German fluently. Dan wore bikini underwear long before it was fashionable. Dan had three children from a previous marriage, though all of them were adopted. Steven, Bonnie, and Lyle came to live with us on weekends, sharing our rooms, eating our Pop-Tarts, changing the TV from reruns of The Brady Bunch to reruns of Get Smart without even asking. Dan didn’t particularly care for the fact that we didn’t call him Dad. He asked us if we loved him. We said no. He asked us why not. We told him we didn’t even know him. Mom told us he was going to adopt us, and we were going to change our last names, and that Dan was going to get full custody of his kids and we’d all
live together in a big house in Pacific Heights. Then Steven beat up his grandma with a broomstick and told everyone that Johnny Carson told him to do it. Then Bonnie brought a Ouija board to our house and started taking her top off around us, which caused problems, because we weren’t related and we were young and we knew from the shaking wall that there was possibility in all of this, that we could all scream our names and no one would know what it meant but us. Then Lyle showed up at homecoming dressed as a woman, and we found
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