Something Fierce by David Drayer Page A

run or at least ride the exercise bike before going to work.
    “Grammy was in the Emergency Room again last night,” Timmy said. Kerri switched from the television to the DVD which held Phantom of the Opera. Timmy continued. “She wants us to have dinner with her and Grandpa tomorrow night.”
    Kerri didn’t answer. She skipped to Christine singing, “Think of Me.”
    “You should have checked your messages or just called us, anyway,” Timmy said, “Mom was worried.”
    “Mother couldn’t care less about me.”
    “That’s not true. She was worried and so was I.”
    Of course, he was worried. He probably thought she was running off again, abandoning him the way she did three years ago with that asshole, Rant—Richie Rant—as he was known on the comedy-circuit or to those suing him for slander, as Richard Lawson III. He was her biggest fuck-up to date. After seeing him on stage, sleeved in tattoos and making fun of everyone and everything that was wholesome, healthy or holy, she’d made it her seventeen-year-old business to meet him and the next thing she knew, she was running off with him. For two months they lived on the road while he performed at dive bars. He was so obsessed with her—especially when he was stoned—so jealous that he’d never let her out of his sight. “I’d keep you on a leash if I could. You’re like a bitch that’s always in heat.” She snuck out in the middle of the night and managed to get back home by morning. Rant stalked her for months, everywhere she went. They even got a restraining order that helped some but didn’t stop him. Not for a long time.
    She closed her eyes tightly to silence the memories of that whole mess. “What?” Timmy said, still standing in the doorway.
    “I didn’t say anything,” she said, opening her eyes and going forward on the DVD to where Christine and the Phantom first share the screen.
    Timmy looked at her helplessly, then drank from the bowl like he didn’t care, tipping his head all the way back, draining the last of his ramen noodles, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture that she would have made fun of if she’d been in a better mood. They had always shared a special bond, much closer than either of them shared with his twin brother, Jimmy, or rather “Jim” as he insisted on being called, who lived with their father and always took his side.
    So she should be nicer to Timmy; he was all she had, really. He got her sense of humor, which everyone else found too mean, too sarcastic. Her imitations, mostly of relatives and her mother’s friends, could make her little brother laugh himself right out of breath, his face red, his eyes watering. Not that she needed to work that hard today. Following her around like a lost puppy, he would take whatever she offered. But it was like there was an invisible track in this house that she often slipped onto and couldn’t get back off of. So much of the time, this was who she was when she was here.
    When Timmy finally gave up and turned to leave, she wanted to cry out, don’t go! I’m being a moody bitch. I’m sorry. I should have called last night. Don’t leave me alone. Please. What she actually said was, “You need a haircut.”
    It was enough to make Timmy turn around and come back to the doorway. “I’m growing it long,” he said.
    This, she was sure, was to further separate himself from Jim who, like their father, had short, sensible hair. “You’re going to look so gay,” she said gazing at the screen.
    “No, I won’t,” he said and looked at the television. “When are you ever going to get sick of that stupid musical?”
    “Never,” she said. Then she imagined Seth telling her not to accept that invisible track, to get off of it, to at least try. So she asked, “Did they find anything wrong with Grammy?”
    “Nope,” Timmy said. “The new doctor said the same thing all the other ones said. There’s nothing wrong with her. It’s