Orphans

17

17 I am running home from school, the leaves at my feet rustle and launch into the air before spinning back to the ground by the blades of the black helicopters flying overhead and circling the neighborhood like enormous metal vultures—watching, always watching, but not doing anything more, nothing obvious anyway. They don’t matter though. They have nothing to do with me, or school, or getting home to see my mom, who is waiting for me. Looking out the window as a cake cooks somewhere in the background. Its vanilla scent saturating the kitchen, the house, the block and my mom, who always smells like baked goods, all sweet and warm and safe. Not that I know what that means. It just is something I am, not something I need to be or figure out, or wonder what it means to get there and how to do so. There she is, standing, smiling and waiting by the curtain . Her red hair twisted behind her neck, her hands at her waist interlocked. Her fingers always moving, wringing , intersecting, twisting. I’m willing her to stand still, smile, and be there. Like a rock. My rock. My dad somewhere , maybe coming home, maybe not, but knowing it doesn’t matter, that it’s okay because she is there. I rush into the kitchen and I am knocked over as always by the smell of the vanilla, the subtle presence of chocolate, the sugary goodness of frosting and a touch of molasses; no, honey; no, both; no, I’m not sure what. But it’s there, and we are sitting at the table now, eating cake, smiling, talking about school, and girls, and music, and then there is a sound behind me. A foot step, a breath. O R P H A N S 62 Someone wanting to be quiet, so close, but not quite able to be. For a moment my mother’s hands stop moving, and the smile becomes half, still happy but something else as well, something more equivocal. Is that worry, pain, confusion, all of it? Maybe, yes, no, don’t know, she’s not moving, just paused, and so I turn around and it’s my dad emerging from the shadows, engulfing me in his enormous arms and burying his clean-shaven head in my neck, taking in my smell and warmth before moving to my mom, now engulfing her as well, grabbing a chunk of cake with his hand and lifting my mom into the air. They are laughing and the room is filled with joy and awe, and then they are drifting upstairs. I am left in the kitchen with the cake and the setting sun and the occasional helicopter buzzing ever closer to the house, but not quite stopping, never stopping, just looming, dipping and swaying in a dance of its own making. Why am I asleep at the kitchen table? Where are my mom and dad? When did it become so dark and cold? What is all that noise? Is that the swoosh of helicopter blades, the heavy sounds of boots slapping the ground, the click of guns, the pounding of fists on the door? Knocking , then pummeling, followed by the rush of soldiers. No faces, guns up, breathing heavy, sweat in the air, a full rush into the house, and through the kitchen before heading up the stairs where my parents, are, went, must be. I chase them, these monsters in the night, invaders, terrorists all, whether they work for the Corporation or God, or wherever they come from, hurtling forth from the darkness. Now they, we, are in my parent’s room. They are naked and flush, hair and skin, everywhere. My dad is trying to get to the window, but they have him, and they B E N TA N Z E R 63 are dragging him out of his room and down the stairs and through the kitchen. He’s smiling, and nodding his head, and he’s gone, so gone, and it’s just us now, and I am the man of the house, now and forever. ...