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SINISTER

23.

 “A band,” my mother said, her brown face as ashen as it could turn. “You’re going to be in a band with Garren.”

“And study music,” I said.

When I got home, my mom and David were in the living room, still in their black funeral outfits. I’d changed out of my SMCA uniform, wadding the blazer, oxford shirt and dress pants into a tight, blue and white ball that I hurled into my closet and left on the floor. I’d stayed in my room, waiting for David to go home. When my mom called me for dinner, I saw three plates on the table. So I blurted through my speech right there in the kitchen, then stood back waiting – and ready – for the tears. David had stood up and left the room without a word. Smart man.

My mom hadn’t cried. Rather, she’d studied me, her lips open and her hands clasped together in front of her.

“You’ve already been accepted to the University of Colorado.”

“They’ll give my spot to someone who wants it.”

“Have you lost your little mind? How long have you been thinking this way? And what makes you think it’s a good idea?”

“It’s what I want, Mom,” I said and started to add that I was sorry. I forced myself not to say it. Why should I be sorry about pursuing the life I wanted instead of the one she’d decided I should have? It wasn’t like I’d decided to be a criminal.

“You want to go to junior college and play in a band with Garren, a boy who just started learning the guitar a month ago, instead of going to school in Boulder. This is what you’ve decided?”

Put that way, it did sound kind of messed up.

“Yeah.”

She stood up and raised one hand. Her fingers curled and uncurled before she pointed at me and started to say something that wouldn’t come out. Then she shook her head and blinked several times, as if trying to bring the world back into focus. I wondered if I should get her a glass of ice water or maybe some wine.

“You’re paying,” she said.

“What?”

“You will not use your college fund to go to junior college. No way will you do that.”

“Fine,” I said.

“You’ll pay every penny of your tuition on your own.”

I had planned on finding a part-time job, but I hadn’t planned on paying my way entirely.

“I already said fine. That’s okay by me. I’ll pay it.”

“I’m not kidding,” she said. “Room and board, that’s all you’re getting if you study music.”

“Gee, thanks a lot,” I said, hating the juvenile pitch I heard in my words. “That’s very supportive of you, real nice.”

“I’m supportive of going to business school and having a life,” she said and every word got louder and shriller.

“In other words what you want, not what I care about,” I said and left the room.

“Anthony, come back here. Have you thought this all the way through? Come back here now.”

I stomped upstairs to my room, slammed the door shut and locked it. When I was little and we’d fought, she’d always knocked on my door and come to me. She’d sat on the edge of my bed and talked in her calm, nurturing way and made everything better. When it came to mommy-ing, she had skills. She could ground me for two weeks and make me feel good about it. That night, however, she didn’t come to my room. She waited me out and, when I got hungry, I returned to the kitchen. She was at the table, the newspaper spread out in front of her and a red marker in her hand. The paper had a bunch of red circles on it.

“Leftovers are in the fridge,” she said. “Warm them up if you want to eat.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m finding jobs you should look into,” she said. “Music school isn’t free, you know.”

“Life is nothing more than deciding what’s worth paying for and what’s not,” I said.

She must’ve recognized it as one of my dad’s saying because she looked up and gave me a cold look that last seconds, then returned to the help wanted ads.

“You’re lucky,” she said and drew another red circle. “There’s some decent jobs in Manitou right now.”

I warmed up a plate of food, tamales with rice and beans. She scooted some of the newspaper out of the way so I could sit at the table. I joined her.

“You can bag groceries,” she said. “That could turn into a union position for you.”

“I won’t need to bag groceries for long.”

She had something to say, I knew, because she clamped her lips tight and made all the wrinkles and smile lines show up.

“Everything will be fine, Mom.”

“Bring Garren over for dinner sometime this week.”

“I will,” I said, “and it really will be okay.”

“I know, good son,” she said. “One way or another, it always is.”

* * *

That night I dreamed about Garren again. He was a child, wide eyed and goofy looking, and he grew up to eat fire out of his hands. In this dream, however, he spit chunks of fire at me. It landed on my face like pieces of vomit. Smoke rolled off my face as it charred my flesh. He laughed at me, a crazy person with two black eyes, and I woke up with a scream breaking out of my chest.

It was just the hectic couple of days, I told myself. I’d had a long ride home from Kansas, then attended Creedy’s viewing. The sight of him embalmed, yet somehow more relaxed than he’d even been in class, had unnerved me. His funeral had been overly long and, to top it all off, Garren was on his way to becoming somebody else. All that would give anybody nightmares, I told myself.

I remembered when the guitar had been my room, a decrepit instrument, aged and irreparable, and the shadows I’d sworn had moved about at night. That had been the drinking, though. The shadows had been nothing more than the result of pouring too much beer on a stressed out imagination.

I believed it. I convinced myself that my nightmares were just that, nothing more. Then I wondered about the silver latches on his case and how they’d reappeared after Garren had fallen in love with her.

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