The Spark of Life
I
Many of my peers had failed a fundamental human task over our years at Collingston—to get out of bed and walk to a toilet before lying in a puddle of their own urine. I came close that morning to being added to the list. My bladder at first told my brain to get up and then three hours later my bladder issued a red alert, blaring sirens and screams up my spine to the stubborn boss in my head. I could hear the warning—barely. The loud shrieks in my head were no more than a whisper in the distant void below.
But it was enough—even after only three hours of sleep—to bring me out of my drunken coma. I pulled myself out of bed, using muscles I didn’t even know I had, my eyelids lifting only to a small slit, my stomach holding up a do not enter sign, my head throbbing like it had been in a vice overnight. I stumbled my way along the short trek through the hallway to the bathroom, stubbing my toe on the staircase pole along the way. The pain didn’t register.
I sat on the pot like a woman, unable to keep my balance long enough to maintain a male stance. I fell asleep there and my father woke me by accidentally ramming the bathroom door into my legs. I pulled up my shorts, running first into the sink and then continuing my zombie stagger into the cabinet.
Pops stood in the doorway smiling, holding in his hand the folded black and white newspaper that accompanied him daily to his morning ritual. “Rough night last night huh? Oh, that’s right, Thanksgiving weekend. It’s been a rough one for years. You better get cleaned up, Ma is already on her way to pick up Sally.”
“Sally. How long?” I’m sure the words didn’t come out in English.
“She’ll be back anytime. We’re leaving in thirty minutes. You better not make us late. You know how she is about being on time.”
I dressed myself and emptied out a few items from each of my dresser drawers into a duffel bag. Was I still drunk? No a voice came from inside my head. You never feel this bad when you’re drunk. It was Thanksgiving and the thought of food made my throat contract, yielding no vomit, just a loud mucousy noise like the sound of an alligator choking. My mouth tasted like I’d been licking a dog’s ass all night.
Sally sat on the couch downstairs, her hair and makeup done, but the camouflage was not good enough to fool me. Maybe it was her eyes that gave it away. Under that glowing skin and mascara was an individual as hurt as myself. I got ready with the belief that I would be able to sleep a little before our departure, but Ma hurried us out the door before I could even say good morning.
It was a two-hour drive to Indianapolis, and I slept at least one hour and fifty minutes of it, hearing Ma comment on my snoring as I drifted in and out of consciousness. I awoke in my grandparents’ driveway, already smelling the aroma of the holiday before anyone opened a door. My stomach did a flip, still holding up the do not enter sign. The sleep had done some good though. My head only felt like someone used it as a jackhammer now, a vast improvement from the vice.
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“I hope you’re ready for this,” I said to Sally as we got out of the car.
II
Roman Swivel and Carl Stumot sat in the yellow cab. The taxi made a left off of Illinois Route One onto a small gravel road that wound through the forest and eventually came to an opening. Buttworst’s house was a cabin, a spacious two-story building made of light mahogany logs. Only an acre of actual lawn sat around it. A freshly killed deer hung by its neck from the rafters of the barn directly west of the house. A long three-car garage graced the east side of the house. The rest of the property was untouched by the woodsman.
Carl had already had a few nips off the flask on their journey north. I was informed on numerous occasions at the Tavern that the only one hundred percent effective way to cure a hangover was to start drinking again. There will be people that tell you its dehydration or a lack of Vitamin B in your system, and maybe it is a little of those things, but more than anything it’s because of withdrawal. You’re literally going through the shakes.
Carl was not hungover however. The man never got drunk in the first place. Carl drank because he liked to drink, not because he had to. And more importantly he drank because he could. There wasn’t an office desk waiting for him Monday mornings or a bitchy wife telling him to go clean the gutters.
Roman exited the taxi on the driver’s side, but was stopped short of paying the man by Carl. He never let Roman pay for anything when he was present.
“Goodness, what a hell of a place,” Carl said as the cab pulled away.
“You wouldn’t mind living in a place like this would you? Away from the city and all the noise.”
“Hell yes I’d live here. Those goddamn crack whores couldn’t track me down this far out sure as shit. Say, you think he built this place by himself like the pioneers?”
“I doubt it. I think it’s only a log cabin on the outside. I bet the inside is furnished pretty well.”
“It’s a goddamn log cabin it is.”
“I know but...never mind.”
Mr. Buttworst greeted the pair of unlikely friends on the front porch, genuinely happy to see them. Buttworst still had on his fatigues with the occasional orange band around his arm or leg. The green tones he wore were eerily similar to that of Carl’s clothing.
Buttworst shook Roman’s hand. “How are you, Roman?”
“I’m good sir. And you?”
“Can’t complain, snagged me an eight-pointer just before sun up. Can’t remember a more beautiful moment.”
“Killed the bastard, huh? Did the fella run off when ya shot him?” Carl said still marveling at the house.
“Actually he only got about fifty yards; I got him pretty clean. You must be Carl.” Buttworst shook Carl’s hand.
“Ah, yes indeed. Many thanks for having us over to such a fine home. My apologies, but I forgot your name.”
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“Call me Bill.”
“Say Bill, did you build this house yourself?”
“No, but I did help. My brother builds houses for a living so he gave me a pretty good deal on this one. Come on in, let me give you guys the dime tour.”
III
Me and Sally sat in the dining room at the main table. It had so much food on it there was hardly any room for a plate in front of you. You had to be somebody to sit at this table. I had a suspicion that my status was only elevated because I brought a guest. Until now I always had to sit at one of the other tables that were scattered through every room in the house. It had to be that way. There were probably fifty people present, seated in the different rooms of the house by rank. The main criteria was age. You had the three or four kiddy tables, the teenage table which I should have been at, the twenty-through-thirty table, the middle-aged table where my parents ate, and then our table—the table reserved for the elders of the family: my great-grandma, my grandparents, and a host of great aunts and uncles.
A barrage of kisses and hugs greeted us earlier. If you were lucky you got the “one on each cheek” kiss, the same kind the Mafia does in the movies. There was always someone that got ya right on the smacker though. I didn’t get the cheek kiss and was still wiping the slobber off my mouth from Granny—my ninety-four-year old great-grandmother.
At a Falcone Thanksgiving the food selection was a little different than the norm. Sure we still had the turkey and dressing and all that shit, and yes everybody ate at least a little of it, but all that was just show, a way for the old-timers to remind themselves that they weren’t living in the old country any more.
They lived in America now. The real meal was all the homemade Italian stuff—
the spaghetti, linguini, sausages, the alfredo and parmesans, the scallops and clams, you name it.
Granddad sat directly across the table from me, stuffing his face, seemingly unaware that the food would never run out, and the entire time staring at Sally to my left. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since the moment we walked through the door. He was sure to give her a long, tight hug too. Granddad was in constant trouble from Grandma for sneaking in dirty magazines, something she referred to as “that porno”. As in “I caught your father trying to sneak in some of that porno again the other day.” My father thought it was a riot and so did I. Granddad wasn’t a pervert or anything. You have to remember it wasn’t everyday that he saw someone as young and good-looking as Sally, in person anyway. He didn’t mean any harm by it. And as he often said, “I might be old, but I’m not dead.”
Granny sat next to me on the right, slouched down in her chair almost unable to see over the table. I swear every year she shrank a little more. She bit off a sausage, removing not only the fork from her mouth but also the top row of her false teeth. Unfazed by the event, she removed and separated the fake ivories from the remaining meat, and set them politely next to her plate. She looked at me and laughed.
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“Oops.” She twirled her fork in some spaghetti. “I can eat without those damn things anyway.”
I nodded my head in agreement.
“You don’t look right.” Granny studied me from head to toe. “You’re all bones. You know if you catch pneumonia the doctors won’t be able to bring you back on account of you losing so much weight.”
I don’t know if Granny was a few marbles short, or she just thought I was thin in comparison to everyone else in the house. I was five ten and a hundred seventy pounds—not exactly skin and bones. Short maybe but not thin. I humored her anyway.
“Why would I catch pneumonia Granny?”
“Well I don’t know, people still can catch it can’t they?”
Granddad spoke to me out of nowhere. You were always carrying on multiple conversations at the same time in this family.
“So when you gonna make an honest women out of Ms. Richards here.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“When you getting hitched?”
“I’m not even graduated from high school yet Granddad.”
Just what I needed. I’m getting ready to dump her and he’s shoving us down the aisle.
Sally blushed even though she knew there was no way. Surely she didn’t think I was going to marry her. The thought couldn’t have been further from my mind.
“She’s not even Italian,” Granny chimed in.
“How do you know, Ma?” Granddad asked. “Just because her name doesn’t end in a vowel doesn’t mean she’s not Italian. Remember Silvy Donaldson that owned the meat shop on Fifth Street. He was Italian.”
“He was an Irishman,” Granny rebutted. “He only lived in an Italian neighborhood.”
“We’re not getting married,” I said trying to kill the conversation.
“Anthony’s getting married?” my aunt Norma cried from the end of the table.
“Which Anthony?” my aunt Fran demanded.
“No Anthonys are getting married,” I said loud enough to hopefully squash the confusion.
“Mussel?” Granny held the half shell right under my nose. It took everything I had not to gag. Spaghetti, maybe even some turkey, but not the slimy mussel. I would never eat that thing even when I wasn’t hungover.
“No thanks, Granny.”
“You need to eat before you shrink to nothing,” she said back.
Granddad pointed at me with his fork. He always did that during conversations at the dinner table. “You have a beautiful young bride here is what I’m trying to tell you.” Granddad thought he was whispering but he wasn’t. “They don’t always keep those nice firm breasts and tight little asses.” He motioned his head toward Grandma. “You gotta get ’em while they’re hot.”
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Grandma slapped him hard enough to knock the food out of his mouth.
“Watch your mouth at the table. You’re just a dirty old man.”
“Leave me alone woman, I’m trying to give the boy some good advice.”
Granny returned to the conversation. “The Good Book says you aren’t to marry across races. Good way to go to hell, breeding with not your own kind.”
Sally covered her mouth trying to hide her laughter.
Granny changed gears on us. “Did I ever tell you all about the time I was in New York on the Ferry? Well, the boat had a leak, hit a rock maybe I don’t know, and before we knew it we were all up to our waists in water. Every last one of us gals started our period right then and there. I guess it was because of the panic. I don’t know for sure.”
On and on it went.
IV
Carl tore through the first deer steak in a matter of seconds, eating like he had been fasting for weeks. When there was nothing left, he picked up his fork and stabbed another steak out of the tray in the middle of the table. Buttworst was a meat and potatoes kind of guy and that’s exactly what you got at his house.
There wasn’t a big selection, but there was enough steak and baked potatoes to last the three of them at least a week. Buttworst and Carl both drank beer with their meal. The host offered Roman one, but he insisted on water.
The number of windows in the room and the glass doors that led out to the back deck eliminated the need for artificial light. Deer and moose heads looked down from their permanent home in the wall as luminous red logs cracked and snapped in the fireplace. A sweet burning smell resonated through the spaciousness of the room, a fragrance that brought you home no matter where you lived. Mr. Buttworst looked up from his plate from time to time, checking his guests’ body language, making sure they were comfortable. He smiled while he ate—a feat that not everybody could do.
Somehow it was still Thanksgiving here.
Roman dabbled with his food, taking slow, deliberate bites not because it tasted bad—in fact it was very good—but because he just wasn’t hungry.
“You don’t like it Roman?” Buttworst said.
“It’s great sir. I just don’t have much of an appetite for some reason.”
“Good,” Carl said. “We ain’t lettin’ it go to the dogs.”
Carl stabbed Roman’s steak, swiped it onto his own plate, and cut it with his knife all in one motion.
“What do you call this anyway?” Carl asked.
“Deer,” Roman said sarcastically.
“Always a wise guy in the bunch let me tell ya. I mean the fancy name.”
“Venison,” Buttworst answered.
“No tisn’t.”
“He’s right, Carl. Venison.”
“Damn it, we called it something else back then. What was it? Ah to hell with it.”
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Buttworst watched as the pace of Carl’s jaws started to slow; eventually hitting a wall, he was unable to finish the last three bites of his steak. The teacher hopped up expecting to collect all three of their plates and the two trays for the meat and potatoes, but Carl and Roman pitched in. Between the three of them they were able to clear the table in one trip.
They all stood at the sink: Roman washed, Carl dried, and Buttworst replaced the plates and utensils in their proper resting spots. Afterwards Carl smoked his pipe. Buttworst resisted the urge to light a cigarette. He conditioned himself to smoke only outside; not that he minded what the smell did to his house, but he thought he would break the habit if he inconvenienced himself with a trip outdoors. That was fifteen years ago. He still went through a half a pack a day, come rain or shine.
“Say Bill, ya ever run into anything out there, in your travels through the forest? They love vegetation, they do.”
Buttworst looked at Roman with wide eyes. “I’m not sure I understand the question Carl. I run into plenty of squirrels, deer, even the occasional wolf.”
“He means aliens,” Roman said.
“Like ET you mean?”
“Much bigger than ET. Much bigger.”
“Nope. Never saw anything like that out there,” Buttworst answered, still unsure if he was going to be the butt of some kind of joke.
The small talk eventually moved away from aliens. Buttworst learned that Carl was a career service man, retired for more than twenty years. Carl learned that Buttworst taught at the high school, teaching his students a math called calculus and algebra. The man who had the most to tell stayed silent, listening to two opposite souls, marveling that the more diverse their lives were, the more they seemed to have in common.
V
I’d fully intended on breaking up with Sally come Monday, but right now I was busy feeling every inch of her naked body on top of mine. The kisses on my neck and the places her hands touched made me feel guilty—but only for a second. The testosterone in my blood stream always had a neat way of washing away feelings of blame.
We were alone in one of the spare bedrooms—the room my father grew up in when he was kid—on the floor, wedged between the bed and the window. A spot like that seemed to come natural for us given our prior history of interruptions. Everyone else was either gone, already asleep, or talking downstairs over a nightcap of decaffeinated coffee. The huge Falcone family wouldn’t miss two of their number. Besides, what I had in mind would take no more than fifteen minutes tops.
Sally had whispered little comments in my ear throughout the day, comments that would make a hooker blush. It was like a slow torture for me, hearing promises of what the night would bring. Each time she hinted at something new to look forward to, I would go through my mind searching for a place in the house where we could be alone, and every time those places were 182
packed to the walls with relatives. I would look at the clock wishing for night to come—an eternity seemed to pass—but the hands would only move minutes from the last time I’d checked.
Whether it was her body or just any good-looking female form, I wasn’t sure. But I was sure I would never get tired of this, not in a thousand life times; the smooth skin, the hair dangling in my face, the hard nipples on soft breasts, the curves of the hips, the wet warmth between legs, the undeniable smell of a woman. And this was it. Break up or no, love or not, we were finally going to do it.
The door opened ushering in two pairs of soft footsteps on the carpet. They were slow and staggering, but there were definitely two people heading in our direction. Sheer terror showed in Sally’s eyes. She pulled a shirt over us, as if that would cover our presence. I was panicked yes, but also surprised at how good I was beginning to handle this all-too-familiar situation. I covered Sally’s mouth with my hand, and reassured her with my eyes that everything was going to be okay.
The bed creaked as the two people lay down, the mattress bowing and the box springs compressing. Maybe we could wait it out. We’d wait until they were asleep, grab our clothes, and crawl out of the room. The bathroom lay just outside the door. There was a series of snorts and odd sounds that only old people make before sleep. They were old. That still didn’t narrow down who it could be.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
It was the unmistakable voice of my Grandma, but was she talking to us?
There were still no eyes peeking down at us from the corner of the bed.
“Tryin’ to relive my youth, woman. What does it feel like?”
“Oh, Vigo,” my grandmother answered with a pleasurable moan.
A series of slobbering kisses and gurgled breaths progressed from atop the bed, and just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, granddad’s underwear came flying off and landed on Sally’s head. I pressed my hand as tightly as I could over her mouth, thinking if I let up at all her scream would ring through the house.
I had managed to slowly kill the stomachache from my hangover throughout that day, even forced down a little spaghetti and turkey, but what filled my belly now was much, much worse. Trapped in a room with two people about to do it was one thing. Hearing every moan of your seventy-something grandparents and watching every thrust indent into the mattress beside you was another. There was no doubt about it. I was going to puke.
A deep breath. Then another. Cool heads had to prevail here for the love of everything sacred. Get to the door. Get to the door. I moved Sally off to the side, careful not to make a noise. I took two fingers and pointed them at my eyes, instructing her to watch me, and then got on all fours and gathered my clothes up quietly. I looked at Sally and motioned my hand flat to the ground, hoping she would stay low. We turned the corner of the bed, crawling like naked babies on the floor.
“Did you hear that?” my grandmother asked.
The motion in the bed stopped.
Me and Sally froze in out tracks.
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“Of course I heard it woman, I’m the one making it.”
The urge to puke returned at once. Sally had heard enough and passed me on the left, double-timing her crawl to the door. Her cute ass bounced as her knees scooted across the carpet. I followed her through the door, making a right into the bathroom and shut the door slowly. I never thought I could feel such freedom in such a small room.
Needless to say Sally threw on her clothes right away, despite her trembling.
We slept in opposite rooms of the house.
VI
December was supposed to be a good month. With all of its lights, the energy at the malls, cookies baking in the oven, eggnog, kids held in such suspense you were sure they were going to pass out from anticipation or exhaustion, peace on earth, good will toward men, the long-haired guy ringing the bell outside Wal-Mart, baby Jesus and the rest of it.
Collingston High used to be that way—garland dangled in the hallways, classrooms had Christmas trees, the choir and band performed pieces about the hope of the world wrapped in a little baby, students exchanged gifts, teachers gave out candy canes, and even the big pine by the clock tower was draped in gold and shimmered with light—but not anymore.
This was prison now. The only thing that graced our halls was abstract art—most of it a bunch of blobs and smears unrecognizable to the eye—that Principal Hartman said was supposed to invoke thought. It invoked boredom. Just another control to keep the inmates subdued and dreaming about something other than freedom.
The holiday cheer was squashed way before I made it to Collingston High.
It took three sets of parents a few times of bitching about their kids’ rights to eliminate Christmas altogether. Their kids weren’t Christian, or Jewish, or Arabic. They weren’t anything. They had no religion, yet Saint Nick intimidated them. Principal Hartman never even let it go to the school board. He obliged the minority opinion and gladly halted all the festive proceedings, returning the cheer of the season to the same drab landscape it was every other month of the year.
Now the name of Christ was a swear word. People were written up for praying. Inmates routinely omitted one line in the pledge of allegiance, often praised by administration for doing so. The word Xmas was not even allowed because of the resemblance between the first letter of the word and the shape of the cross. Teachers went through the school day focused on the curriculum, oblivious to the holiday season outside. By refusing to acknowledge it, the institution could prevent Christmas from happening. At least that’s what they thought.
Hell hath no furry like a women scorned, especially during Christmas.
Especially if her name was Heather Hawthorne and the guy she wanted had successfully ignored her for the duration of a weekend, not answering the phone, or the knock at his door, or responding to the notes she slipped into his mailbox. She was in unfamiliar territory with this one. Heather got what she wanted the majority of the time and with men she’d gotten it one hundred percent of the time—until 184
now. It took a skinny kid that spent his nights as a janitor and started out as a geek in the corner of the lunchroom, to end Heather’s flawless streak.
Gone were the graceful days of Heather walking to the pop machines with her hips swaying back and forth, making her ass dance to the beautiful rhythm of her footsteps, turning every male gaze into fantasy land. Now she walked to her destination with small steps, barely lifting her feet off the ground, scooting along with the sex appeal of a turtle. She slammed her tray on the table, taking the seat next to me. She’d given up trying to sit by Roman.
Heather blew the straggles of hair out of her face so she could see me. Her eyes looked me over with piercing accuracy. If she were capable of heat vision, I would’ve been on fire. She shook her head in disgust at me, unable to put into words her anger. She popped open her Mountain Dew and drank it down with such force, it seemed she was trying to inflict pain on the yellow liquid. I knew better than to even ask. It could be a number of things. More than likely it was Roman. I pretended to ignore her. That might have not been the best route to take.
Roman sat unaware of the radioactivity floating from her body, reading a book, and eating a small bowl of spinach. He knew the only way he could escape her—the way he always escaped dire situations—was through the doorway of a book. It still amazed me how fast he read. Every fifteen seconds or so the page turned.
Heather had enough of my indifference. She turned and looked at me, opening her mouth then pausing briefly. “Are you just going to sit there and not say anything?”
I looked at her, hoping it would be Roman the question was aimed at. No such luck. “I didn’t know you wanted me to talk. You never said anything.”
“You broke up with Sally?” she said the words like it was a trick question or like it was more of a statement. Before I could respond she started again. “You know she was up crying the entire night and didn’t even come to school today.
You broke her heart.”
“We were never that big a deal,” I said.
“Not that big a deal, huh? Maybe that’s why she raved the whole weekend about how much fun she had with your family, and how good it felt to be there with you, and what a great time the two of you had. Why would you break up with her?”
“I’ve gotta start getting ready for baseball.”
“So you can’t have a girlfriend and play baseball at the same time? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
Heather’s volume level ascended with every word she spoke. No one paid much mind. They had all heard the tirade before. She did, after all, spend three years at the table with Johnny the Killer. The only virgin ears were Roman’s. I saw his brown eyes peek over the pages of his book from time to time, too scared to lower the book from his face, but too interested not to watch.
“Yeah that’s right, I can’t train and put up with her Mickey Mouse shit at the same time. I lose my focus. Besides she’ll get over it. It’s not like she was in love or anything.”
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Heather’s eyes squinted and her upper lip curled like a Rottweiler about to snarl. The pretty face we all knew and loved was gone. “You’re nothing more than a male chauvinist. You know that? You think women are no more that two breasts and a vagina, put on earth to keep your penis happy.”
“Damn she told you Tony,” Pick Bryant said.
The rest of the table was watching now.
“No, Heather, I think there’s a lot more to women besides boobs and a vagina. Their asses for instance. I’ve always considered myself to be an ass-man,”
I said.
All the guys laughed, and an uncertain smile made its way to my face.
Heather stood up and slapped my face all in one motion, an act she seemed to be perfecting. It wasn’t a love tap like the one at The Tavern; this one knocked my head sideways, sending a sharp pain down my