I’ll
take a sucker punch over spit any day. Not without his talents, Tom finesses
spit like a yo-yo, lowering and rewinding a slimy string until I stop squirming
and face my fate. He releases the gob over my nose where it splatters and slides
to the corner of my eye in a pool of sudsy afterbirth. Bombs away!
We
eye each other across the living room; his girly eye lashes at odds with his
maniacal stare. The car horn blasts. Our mother breezes through, reeling off
phone numbers, Chef Boyardee selections, and a stay-out-of-trouble directive. Runners take your mark! Her wake of Shalimar slaps us in the face.
Get set! Tom leans forward on the fake velvet chair, and I shift my weight to
the balls of my feet. The Buick crunches out of the gravel driveway and gives a
final honk. Go!
I’m
half way to the bathroom before he blinks, his fingertips tangling with my hair
as I slam the door and pray I don’t blow it on the lock. He rattles the
doorknob. “Jerk!” He parries by pushing the bureau and desk in front of
the door. I settle in for hours of playing with make up and testing my
vocabulary in Reader’s Digest “Word Power.” Imbroglio – an intricate and
confusing interpersonal situation.
Our
father races us regularly on a stretch of lawn that sides up to a field of tall
grass, snatches of river flashing beyond the trees like glass. We race to the
Big Oak when the grass has lost its heat, the moist damp soothing my embattled summer
feet. Even after I understand racing isn’t for me but to humiliate Tom, I don’t
give up a step, exacting his shame as a salve for my wounds.
Running
is the art of calmly breathing through prolonged pain until you find the will
to transcend it. That’s what flying feels like.
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