Back

Summer Short Stories, 2002, HTML & text, dimensions variable

 

                                         
   
                 
     
                         
       
                               
             
                             
       
                     
     
             
   
       

 

He dropped his bike by the side of the trail and looked off through the trees towards the creek (ca. 1968).

 

                             
   
 
       
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
 
 

 

From the house he looked out towards the lake and wondered when they'd be back (ca. 1971).


                                         
           
           
     
   
       
   
       
     
 
         
       
   

 

That Saturday his father had brought home a watermelon. Before it was put into the refrigerator the boys emulated their father's test for ripeness by thumping the watermelon with flicked middle fingers triggered by thumbs, and by putting their ear close to the rind as they pierced the skin with a thumbnail. On that warm late summer Saturday afternoon, after a day of riding bikes and playing catch, all three boys pitched in to help their father mow the front lawn by taking turns behind the mower, and clipping, trimming, raking, and sweeping while their mom made fried chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. It was a meal well worth earning, the labor accompanied by the smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of family voices. As the light faded in the long, low, late sky the day was crowned by a large slice of cold watermelon (ca. 1968).


                                       
                                       
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         
                                         

 

That night, overwhelmed by the feeling that he would never know anything certain, he went upstairs to to his room and lay in bed surprisingly earlier than usual while his family watched television. His eyes, opened wide in the dark, searched the room for a speck of hope, and tried to name what he was looking for. A while later his mom peeked through the door to say good night, and attempting to stir up the smallest courage to ask for help he called her name, "Mom?" "What is it?" He hesitated, and then knew that he couldn't go any further. "Nothing" (ca. 1974).


                                                                                                                                                               
   
 
 
 
                                     
   
 
 
 
                                     
   
 
 
 
 
 
                                           
   
 
 

 

Earlier in the evening the boys dragged out from the storage room the old, musty, WWII army-issue cots made of thick pea-green canvas and solid wood that their dad had bought at an auction house, that one out on the highway near the bridge toll plaza by the bay, and set them up in the huge field full of fruit trees out behind the house with sleeping bags and pillows laid out and ready. After dinner, after riding bikes, after playing hide-and-seek, and after bowls of ice cream, they slid into their narrow outdoor night-beds, gazed up with wonder and excitement, and slowly fell asleep under the dark blue sky and shooting stars (ca. 1966).

 

     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 

His brother, four years older and just out of high school, was in the rear of the garage working on his motorcycle, having a tough time getting the brake drums back together. He entered at the front of the garage to work on his own bike, to clean out the carb, and when his brother swore loudy at the uncooperative parts once more he glanced in the direction of the insults. His brother, enraged, yelled, "What are you looking at!" and reared back, throwing a screwdriver at him. Quickly twisting and turning his body, reaching one arm up over his face and the other down his side, pulling his knee up to protect his lower torso, he closed his eyes and heard the screwdriver hit the grill on the front of their mom's car in the driveway. He thought, "What an idiot, that's sharp, he could've really hurt me." He turned and charged, arms and fists flying, blows landing on his older brothers head, chest, and upraised arms. Pulling quickly back, his brother said, "Hey man, OK!" He looked at his brother, fiercely, tense, his chest puffing, ready to start fighting again. For the first time, he had been the aggressor, surprising his older brother, no longer willing to take his abuse. His brother never touched him again (ca. 1972).


                                         
           
     
         
     
         
     
         
     
         
     
         
     
         
     
         
     
       
     
         
       
   

 

On a warm summer Sunday evening the dim orange and yellow of the setting sun floated in through the open windows and settled on the heads and shoulders of the congregation. The light gathered, swirled, and shown off faces and the pages of open hymn books. His father held a book in his upraised left hand, his body lowly vibrating the words of "Nearer My God to Thee." The father's voice was felt and heard in the skull of his young son, who stood next to and leaned into the father's right side, the father's large hand resting firmly and assuredly on the boy's shoulder (ca. 1964).



         
     
   
 
 
             
   
     
     
 
 
 
                 
       
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
       
     
   
   

 

It was a street bike, but that day he decided to go ride in the hills near his house, like he used to when his smaller dirt bike was still running. He raced up one hill, and down another, standing up over the bumps. Everything was great, and he was getting comfortable flying around on that big heavy bike until he decided to take the big downhill with the jump in the middle. He flew over the crest of the hill about 45 mph and hit the bump, standing on the pegs to better control the bike, but the bike was so heavy that he couldn't avoid landing on the front wheel. The handlebars turned, the bike flipped over, and he was pitched into the air. He tucked in for a landing, then flattened his body once he hit the ground so he wouldn't continue to roll or slide down the hill. He looked over to see his bike flying through the air and somersaulting down the hill. Then silence. Despite not wearing a helmet he wasn't hurt. He looked at his poor bike, the shift lever bent back, the handlebars bent, and the front light smashed. Now he had two bikes to fix (ca. 1974).



                               
   
 
                         
                   
         
   
   
   
       
                   
                   
                               
                               
   
 
 

 

They didn't know that when they moved to their new house occasionally they'd be able to walk out into the middle of the street, look at the hills, and see the NIKE missles raised out of their silos (ca 1969).


       
     
   
   
 
 
 
         
       
   
   
 
 
 
 
 
     
   
 
 
 

 

They were always "the boys," all three of them. Spanning six and a half years from oldest to youngest, they were an identifiable unit, very much apart from their sister, the youngest. They looked after her, helped her, played with her, defended her, and over the years each developed tender relationships with her, learning to rudimentarily communicate in her limited language. Because of her the family was different than any other on the block. Once the boys were out in the garage, angry at the slight they thought they'd perceived by that snotty boy on the bike from around the corner. What did he mean by that? Did he really use that word? The oldest said, "Hey man, I'll kick anybody's butt who calls her a retard" (ca. 1969).


                                         
                                         
                                   
                       
                             
                     
                               
                             
                       
                     
                                 
                   
                           
                           
                           
                 
                                 
                       
                         
                               
                                     

 

With a ladder he was able to climb into his grandmother's apricot tree. The hard and smooth bark, with sharp edges where it curled away from the trunk and branches, rubbed against his hands and legs. He smelled the fruit and felt the late afternoon wind, watching the sky. Sitting quietly, he waited for the birds to return to the outer swaying branches where they would nibble at the yellow, orange, and pink fuzzy apricots. He examined the evidence of their earlier work- pockmarked skins rotting at the edges and exposed dark pits (ca. 1963).



                           
           
 
   
     
   
               
       
     
         
   
 
   
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
     
   
 
 
         
   
       
 

 

Who was she, coming through the door, so strange yet so familiar? As an infant he had known her very closely during the first year of his life, but then she was gone and he had forgotten about her for a year. Now his toddler eyes and brain struggled to know her, to place her, and he was apprehensive about leaning into her arms. But she said his name, and said it in such a way that he soon willingly found himself held by her, and all the memories and familiar comforts returned. He knew her voice, her skin, her smell, and how she talked to him and loved him. His grandmother was home (ca. 1959).


                                         
                                         
                     
                     
                 
                   
                         
                               
                     
                     
                 
                   
                                 
                                 
                     
                     
                 
                   
                               
                                     
                                     

 

The photo was taken in Trafalgar Square, with Nelson's Column and the National Gallery behind them. The older brother stands to the right, smiling, having just turned his eyes to look down at his outstretched arm and the pigeon sitting on his index finger. The younger brother's knees are slightly bent, his outstretched hand holds birdseed, his head is tilted to the left, and he is laughing. His right eye is turning upward to see the pigeon sitting on his head, his left eye looks at his grandmother behind the camera (ca. 1965).


                                         
       
   
         
   
     
   
     
   
     
   
               
   
     
   
     
   
   
   
     
   

 

They lay on the bunk beds in their room on Saturday night and stared at the old B&W TV, watching "The Hank Williams Story," starring George Hamilton (ca. 1967).