Sweet Home Blues
“Wake up, sweetie,” she whispered.
David Boyer groaned and murmured protests into his pillow, but something in her voice persisted. David awoke gradually, in slow, almost balletic grace. A great long paralyzing shudder echoed through his body. He then rolled over onto his back and kicked the bed sheets down past his knees. Cool, caressing hands touched his leg, beckoning him to rise and join the world of the living. He opened his eyes to the familiar silhouette of the woman sitting beside him on the edge of the bed.
As his vision adjusted to the soft orange illumination his old nightlight still emitted within the room, the figure of his mother, Elaine, came into focus. Her wavy brown hair hung down past her shoulders. Spare wet strands dangled in front of her face, leaving the details of her expression a mystery. Her outstretched hand remained resting on David’s leg, the fingers tapping a tiny roll drum, radiant and distinct from everything else.
David pulled himself up and away, then swiveled his hips so that he could plant his feet onto the shag carpet below. Elaine stood up and glided over to the corner of the room.
“Ready?”
After a pause, and without really waiting for an answer, she flipped on the overhead light.
Arms stretched skyward, David yawned good morning. Elaine came back towards her only child and helped him peel off the damp Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt he wore to bed. She crumpled it into a ball and said, “Okay, bubba, time to go wash off the stink. We’ve got a super long day ahead of us.”
On the short walk down the hallway to the bathroom, David could hear the distant muffled curses of his father coming from the kitchen. Fingertips searched the wall for the light switch, finding it after a moment. The almost twelve-year-old face in the mirror was covered with numerous spider web imprints. A strong case of bed-head caused his hair to jut out at comically impossible angles. David raised his eyebrows at his appearance and turned to face the tub.
He pushed the floral patterned shower curtains into clumps, then turned the hot water nozzle on full blast. Ever so carefully, he began to add in bits of cold as if he were adjusting the levels on a stereo, unsatisfied until the temperature was just right. Steam rose from the drain and began to fog the mirror. David sought perfection, a perfection that would rival the waters of Eden. In spite of his efforts, those miniscule twists of the knob, he didn’t find it. On this morning, at least, he settled for something less.
With the shampoo lathered in his hair, spiked up in a rapidly collapsing Mohawk, he imagined himself as the movie character Ferris Bueller, his hometown hero, singing an improvised chorus of undulating hums, interspersed with the occasional doots, dahs, and dees. David often daydreamed about cutting class to attend afternoon Cubs games at Wrigley Field, driving ruby red Ferraris, and twisting and shouting atop a float at the Von Steuben Day Parade. A secret part of him yearned for his own Sloane Peterson to kiss, sitting on benches nestled away in hidden corners of art galleries.
Upon drying, he draped the mauve towel around his shoulders like a cape. The mirror was a mask of steam and streaks. David wiped a small patch clear with the palm of his hand and went about checking his cheeks, chin, and upper lip for any signs of little blond whiskers. Nothing yet. He sighed and reached for his toothbrush.
His room was still aglow from the light left on by his mother. While he was away, she had taken the opportunity to select some clothes for him. There they were, folded neatly on the bed. No, no, no, those red-and-white striped tube socks wouldn’t do at all, nor would the stuffy collared shirt she had picked out. He tossed them in a drawer, grabbed suitable alternatives, and got dressed.
The elongated rectangle of the living room shifted to lighter and lighter shades of blue as daybreak approached. Ancient beige drapes hung like pillars, worn and slightly fading. Scratch marks littered the lower portions of the fabric, mostly hidden by the strategic placement of a love seat positioned beneath the bay window. There had been recent table talk over Sunday dinner about modernizing and buying new curtains, but Martin — David’s father — waxed off the suggestion. The curtains were just fine, in his opinion. As David played with his peas, he overheard recurring accusations of being a “penny-pincher” and a “Scrooge.” Making his way along the wall of family portraits, David recalled the tact in which his father had diffused the increasingly volatile situation by adding a reluctant tease of, “Well, dear, maybe next year.”
The love seat was often left unused by the humans living in the household, but it was the ideal spot for Boo, the Boyer’s spry black cat, to curl up into a ball and feign deep sleep. On this morning, however, Boo was nowhere to be found and so David continued through, passing by the TV and the shelves of VHS tapes, the plush reclining chairs, the stained coffee table, and mom’s curio cabinet that was filled to the brim with porcelain figurines, baubles, and other assorted kitsch. Old issues of Better Homes and Gardens and Popular Mechanics and junk mail were stacked in a pile by the door, which meant they had a date with the trash.
His growling stomach led him to the bright fluorescence of the kitchen. Though breakfast was normally a bowl of cereal or a cold Pop Tart, this morning of mornings promised to be different. His imagination conjured up images of tall stacks of pancakes drenched in maple syrup and butter, crispy strips of bacon, mounds of scrambled eggs, fresh toast slathered with raspberry jam, and the prospect of a glass of milk quickened his step. He couldn’t wait to see what mom had prepared.
His heart sank as he rounded the corner. There stood his father hovering over the stove, staring down a skillet billowing with greasy smoke. The aroma of bacon — freshly charred — suddenly infiltrated his nostrils. David watched with horror as his father prodded and scraped at the skillet’s contents with a fork.
“Marty, don’t burn the bacon!” Elaine called from the pantry.
David collapsed into his seat at the table, knowing the point was already moot.
Elaine peeked her head over the saloon-style doors of the pantry. “Oh my God, Marty, you’re making a mess! Use some tongs or a spatula or something!”
“It’s fine, dear. It’s fine.” He unraveled a long stretch of paper towels. “Look. This is just as easy.” David watched as his father soaked up a spreading puddle of grease. The elder Boyer shuffled between the sink and stove, trying to clean and cook at the same time. The peace of the morning seemed suddenly shattered by the tumultuous swoosh and clang of the nearby washer, the sink faucet running full blast, and the skillet now smoking in Martin’s hand.
“Hey Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Um, the stove’s still on.”
“Shoot!” Martin cried, reaching for the knob.
Minutes later came the relieved announcement that breakfast was ready. The three of them sat together at the kitchen table, which was normally only used for special occasions like Thanksgiving. Martin had his plate stacked high with salted hash browns and sausage links. With a Tribune spread out next to his plate, he alternated his attention between bites of food and news. Elaine sipped on a cup of coffee, but wasn’t eating. Rather, she sat with a pen and pad of paper, scribbling instructions to Dale and Cindy, their neighbors who would be keeping an eye on the house while they were gone.
“Aren’t you going to eat, mom?”
“Oh, I already had something light, sweetie. You should hurry up and munch though, honeybunch. We’ve got to get this show on the road here real soon, ok?”
Despite her encouragement, David found himself dawdling, picking and poking at his food. He chewed and swallowed slowly. The bacon, made especially for him, tasted as if they were leftovers from an explosion. After three nibbles, he reached for his milk. The runny sunny side eggs weren’t much better. When he closed his eyes and swallowed, visions of swimming yellow jellyfish filled his mind.
“Well, how is it?” Martin peered over the top of his paper. David was in the process of scraping the last remaining bits of hash browns to the corner of the plate. He looked up and met his father’s eyes. The look on his face was not one of anger or impatience, but modest curiosity.
David shoveled the remaining food into his mouth. He chewed and chomped and swallowed the last of it with some effort. Then, after wiping his mouth the back of his hand, he said, “Uh, it was good, dad. Thanks.” Underneath the table, his fingers were crossed.
“You’re welcome, pal.” Without another word, his father rose from his chair, picked up the dishes, and made his way to the sink.
“Marty, we need to get the car loaded soon.”
“Mm-hmm,” he answered, inattentive. “What time is it?”
The microwave clock was directly to his left. Elaine tried to mask her annoyance. “Almost six-thirty.”
“Elle, we’ve still got at least half an hour before we need to leave. Our flight isn’t even…”
“Martin.” She set the pen down. “This is peak traveling season! Think of all the traffic, the lines, the waiting! If we don’t get a head start on things, we’ll be waiting around there forever!”
“Jesus, Elle, it’s the airport. All you do there is sit and wait. Besides…”
The argument continued at a slow boil. David used it as a distraction to slink out of his chair and sneak away. As he reached the threshold of the living room, his mother called to him.
“David, sweetie, double check to make sure you’ve packed everything you want to take with you. Your father is loading up the car in five.”
“Yes, mom,” he nodded and disappeared from view.
This was to be the Boyer’s first vacation overseas. Their previous major trip had been four years prior, a weeklong stay at Disney World. David was eight then and still very much into believing Goofy was somehow very real. The subsequent years that dragged between this upcoming voyage and the one before mostly had to do with the late decade revival of fiscal sanity, saving, and spending on necessary things in small doses. Martin believed that they should spend big on vacation every three or four years at most. From his armchair pulpit, he’d preach the old proverb, “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”
Lately though, at the end of a long day, the adults would kick back in their respective recliners and bicker like chipmunks over an acorn. Big words and complex problems hovered in the air like an ominous rain cloud above David, who laid sprawled out on the living room floor, watching an endless string of commercials for things like coffee, breath mints, and shampoo. As soon as whatever program or movie came back on, David felt saved. He could focus again, causing everything else to fade away.
“David!”
He cracked open the door and looked down the hall. “Yeah, ma?”
“It’s time to hit the road, Jack. Do you have everything?”
“I think so.”
“Are you sure? No stragglers? Because this is your last chance — we won’t be home for two whole weeks.”
On a last second impulse, David reached for a little red rubber bouncy ball on the bookshelf next to his light switch. He closed the door behind him. Clutching the ball, he walked towards his mother, who stood in the open doorway. She had her arms crossed and her purse dangled at her elbow. David squinted as the rising sun broke through the leaves of the maple trees in the front yard. Elaine tipped the sunglasses that had been perched on her forehead onto the bridge of her nose.
“What have you got there?” she gestured towards his closed fist.
“Ahh, nothin’,” he said, bashfully tucking his chin into his chest.
She patted her son on the back and ushered him out the door. She locked behind her. Ever so discreetly, David dropped the ball into his pocket. They went along the stone-lined path that led to the driveway. Luggage peeked over the back seats of their white Volvo station wagon. The windows were rolled down. Martin, apparently catching a quick catnap in the passenger seat, had his arm dangling on the sill.
He jumped awake at the sound of slamming doors. The keys jangled as Elaine turned the ignition and revved the engine. Meanwhile, Martin clicked the garage door opener clipped to the overhead visor. As Elaine backed out of the driveway, the garage door shuddered and closed with a resounding boom.
“Well, I’d say you’re in a better mood.”
“Oh, and I’m not entitled to be excited on a day like today?” Elaine looked over at her husband. She nearly smiled as she shifted the car into second.
“Just take it easy going down the Interstate, huh?” Martin said. “We don’t need any outstanding tickets before we leave the country.”
She groaned, but then quickly regained her bubbly air, livening up the mood of the car with her jingle of a laugh. In short time she was humming to the tune of seventy-six miles per hour. The radio was turned down to a whisper. Her left hand on the wheel acted as a conductor’s baton, coordinating the tires as they rumbled down the highway. Her right hand slid gingerly beneath her husband’s, the fingers interlocking after a time. David looked out the window as the car cruised, watching distant trees, blurred buildings, gas stations, and the bleached sky. The gray concrete daze of the road in front of them overwhelmed his vision, punctuated by the endless streams of white and yellow paint.
He counted the blips of yellow to pass the time, barely reaching twenty before the car would switch lanes again, continuing its weave through the morning rush hour. When that got boring, he counted telephone poles. Following the suspended electrical wires, he pretended he could leap the gap between poles like he was some superhero — Spider-Man, perhaps — able to swing across the chasm at the last second.
Sometimes, he skipped a pole or two, and he’d be practically soaring by now, in pursuit of some bad guy. Or maybe he was on the run, the one being pursued? He held his breath and clenched his stomach, knowing that there was no real danger, yet his palms secretly glowed with summer sweat. And in his vision of pointless heroism, he felt breathless, even briefly free.
Such things don’t last forever, though, and even the superhero routine soon became tedious. He slumped back in his seat and stared at the traffic traveling the opposite direction in slow motion. Cracking the window, he listened closely to the singular hum of the Volvo against the dissonant jumble of the other cars and trucks on the road. The wind bellowed for attention. The air reeked of exhaust and hot asphalt.
“Sweetie? Could you roll that window up? I’ve got the air on.”
Sucked under by the soft music and the frigid chill of the AC, David fell into a brief and uneasy sleep. His body slumped forward like a slackened marionette. Trying to sleep upright had never been one of David’s more charming moments. His body at present was caught between sizes, put together with a number of awkward, ill-fitting body parts that had yet to meld and come to terms with one another.
But it wasn’t so much an issue of size and dimensionality that gave David a somewhat off-kilter appearance while he napped. It was how he managed to prop his limbs at all sorts of odd angles. His hands, with their long and dexterous fingers, would come to rest in random places: atop a knee, bracing his limp head like a baby orangutan, or sometimes altogether tossed aside.
Once, when he was being tucked in some years earlier, he had asked his mom how he looked when he slept. In response, she smoothed his hair as his eyelids grew heavy. Her voice assumed a gentle, syrupy, Southern belle inflection as she eased his self-conscious curiosity, saying he looked as cute as a button. He was her one and only “wild child” with that Tasmanian devil head of hair.
The sudden gush of outside noises and a rush of warm air filled David’s ears. Peeking through the blurry mesh of partially open eyes, ever so careful not to expose the whites, he saw that the passenger window had been cracked open an inch or two. The sound-smell combo of a match being struck lit his senses.
“Marty!” David heard his mother hiss. “I hope for your sake and your son’s you quit that soon.”
“Jesus, Elle, what’s the matter with the occasional cig? I’ve cut back — you know I don’t smoke near what I used to.”
“Oh, a pack a day? Yeah, that was real healthy.”
“Well, I’m down to half a pack, hon. I’m getting there.”
“Getting there? Think of the example you’re setting for him, especially sneaking around like you usually do. I mean…first you said you’d quit after we first got married. Then, it was by the time David would be born. What’s next? By the time he finishes high school? It’s always a new deadline with you.”
“Are you going to keep railing me, sweetheart, or just let it be? I said I’m trying here.” He ashed out the window and then glanced back at his faux-sleeping child. Hoping, praying not to be caught, David squeezed his eyes shut so hard that the blackness beneath his eyelids transformed into a warm prism of color. He let his head fall ragged and helpless against his collarbone. The engine revved harder.
“Well?” he heard his father ask.
“Nothing.”
“Oh. Nothing. Great.”
David didn’t dare reopen his eyes. A heavy silence followed, only to be broken up by the light ding of a glockenspiel at the beginning of “Sloop John B” playing on the radio.
The sucking sound of wind soon stopped, a sign that the cigarette was finished and the window rolled up. David took a chance and dared to look up at the rearview mirror. There were his mother’s eyes. The car zigzagged once more. David blinked once, twice.
When he looked again, her gaze had disappeared. All he could see was the expanse of her forehead, creased and concentrated. He realized she must have been looking at the mirror to see the cars behind her before she made a move. How stupid of me, he thought, still staring up at the mirror like it was the Sears Tower, when out of the blue her eyes reappeared. This time, she winked.
The wink was unmistakable. It could have been taken, however, a number of different ways.
First and foremost to David’s mind was that the jig was up. His pseudo-sleeping spy tactics had failed, miserably. So long future career at the CIA.
He had assumed that he was situated at just the right angle to be hidden from view. But now a series of alternatives raced through his mind, spanning the scale of plausibility. Since when did she take her sunglasses off? Could there be something stuck in her eye? Was she in fact squinting because of the sun? He measured the likelihood that she’d be winking at the suitcases piled up behind him in the trunk. Or — his imagination flashed — what if she had just seen a ghost or something, floating around beside him, like some kind of ephemeral butterfly? It never once occurred to him to wonder just what the wink might signify.
And so David, seated in back on the beige vinyl bench seat, and still feigning sleep for some reason, convinced himself that his mother’s brown-eyed wink wasn’t ever meant for him.
He sat up straight, abandoning his unorthodox sleeping position, and faked a yawn. His father took the opportunity to carp about having to pay for long-term parking. “We should have just called a cab.”
“Honey, I love you, but are you kidding me?” Elaine looked over at her husband, who had his eyebrows raised as if in advanced objection to a forthcoming retort. “First of all, cabs are so expensive anymore, and it’s not like airport parking is going to bankrupt us. And, might I add the fact that we’re going to be huffing and puffing it so much between cabs, buses, and the Underground over the next two weeks that we’ll probably never want to do public transport ever again!”
“You have a point, dear,” Martin admitted with a shrug. He fumbled his follow-up. By then, David had taken the red bouncy ball out and was trying to roll it down the curvature of his arm and into the palm of his hand.
“Don’t worry, dad,” he said, without looking up. “You’ll win an argument one of these days.”
Elaine made a sound as if someone had just tickled her foot.
“Okayyy,” she announced, flipping on the turn signal.
The car swung over to the farthest right lane and began to decelerate. It was clear she had her foot off the gas, but hadn’t yet hit the brakes. Looming in the distance was the sprawling concrete maze of O’Hare International. Against this backdrop, the limitless procession of ascending and descending planes looked like miniature toys. The car began to careen around the ramp. David gripped the corner of his seat to keep his balance.
“Here’s our exit!”
Thanks so much for reading! To celebrate the upcoming milestone of 1,000 followers on here, I wanted to deliver something special. This is the first chapter of my book, A Song for Zooey. I’ve been debating for a long time to self-publish it as an e-book. Would you want to read it?
