Last week Momma told me that I was the queerest thing in Salina until The Bomb came along. When I responded that she was still the most explosive, she just giggled. The Bomb isn’t the name of a local bar – Salina’s too far from any city or town to need that kind of creative naming. Our only bar has the no-nonsense name: The Bar – though it’s sometimes called The Gay Bar when I’m there. In Salina, we call it like it is. So The Bomb is indeed a bomb. It was the second of two that the Air Force dropped by accident during a Fourth of July training mission. Apparently our town hall looks like the buildings the military constructs for target practice. I should say “looked” – we don’t have a town hall anymore, seeing as that first bomb actually worked. The military promised to remove the one that didn’t blow, but Mayor Stubblefield never heard back from the clean-up crews. At least The Bomb makes for an easy meeting point. It’s already on Google Maps, right next to the town hall ruins. That’s where I told Leaf he’d find me. If anyone sees us there, they’ll start calling it The Gay Bomb – or if I get lucky – The Love Bomb.
What’s a gay like me doing here? Sure, like all village homos, I’ve thought of leaving for a bigger stage in Tulsa or Muskogee. But life in Salina is cheap; and with Momma’s medical bills, that’s nothing to scoff at. Besides, if I want culture then I can order opera DVDs online.
No, Salina isn’t dangerous. The gay thing might be a problem if everyone didn’t know me, but I’m their gay. When they see me they say, “There goes our gay, Harold Blackwater.” I could go to church in full drag and the preacher would just lead everyone in a prayer for my makeup skills.
Leaf, the date I’ll soon be meeting at The Bomb, is another story. He’s from Springdale; out of town, out of state. His name alone would give him away. No Salinan would call their kid Leaf. Did I mention his last name is Lovetree?
We met online after I took one of those DNA sequencing tests; another thing the Internet’s brought to Salina. It was Momma’s idea. When she was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, she got interested in our family tree and we ordered two of them. She had to do hers three times before the company broke it to her that her DNA wasn’t readable. Depending on her mood, she blames the chemo, the radiation or the steroids; but never the hourly dose of codeine that tricks the pain out of her body. Last time we blamed the radiation. “Those quacks have zapped me into a fucking mutation,” she said when she got the third dud test result. “The DNA readers probably think I sent a tube of fly spit.”
I got my results on their website, where you can make contact with people in your gene strain. It works like a genetic Facebook or Grindr (depending on your inclinations). They have a map of the world with Salina in the center. The rest of the world is freckled with red dots where my genetic cousins live. It’s unbelievable how many I have, even in India and South Korea. Imagine a Harold Blackwater in Salina, South Korea ordering Tannhäuser DVDs from the Met Opera Shop.
Leaf is the closest dot that I don’t meet each year for Thanksgiving. I suspected he was gay when he said he liked Tchaikovsky. I was even more certain later when he said he liked sensitive men who look like truckers. Genetically, he’s only my fourth or fifth cousin. So why shouldn’t we meet up for a date? I say “we,” but in reality he has to come to me. I can’t leave Momma alone for the time it’d take to travel to Arkansas.
As I get ready to go, Momma grumbles from the living room. Everyone thinks that cancer makes people waste away to a skeleton. But with Momma it’s made all the fat collect in her stomach, backside and thighs. Mobility is slow and painful. The most she moves from her spot on the couch is when the home-care nurse comes to bathe her, change the sheets and “hook her up to the balding juice.” Apart from that, she only limps off the couch for the toilet and even that might be too much. I’ve seen her thumbing through catheter catalogues lately. It’s hard to watch her sit there all day. Before she could admit that walking was painful, she’d say that she was guarding the remote: protecting her television from the Wagner marathon I’d been planning. Once she said that the screen would “go full priss” and refuse to play her British comedies if it got a taste of Lohengrin.
She puts Last of the Summer Wine on mute and looks at me. “Harold, how do you know you can trust this fairy?”
“I don’t, Momma. But what do I have to lose?”
“You’ve got me, you little shit. That’s what.”
“If he wants you, Momma, he can have you. Maybe I’ll bring you to The Bomb with me. It’ll save him the trouble of driving here to kidnap you.”
Her face pinches into an angry purse. “Well if you aren’t the most ungrateful little faggot I’ve ever raised. Is this how you repay me for all those years of carting you over to Pryor for ballet classes?” Yes, I did ballet. No, not all gays are great dancers. My teacher at Miss Kimmi’s School of Classic and Liturgical Dance said my body moved more appropriately for theater. Imagine a grizzly bear attempting a grand jeté.
Momma shakes her head and a waddle of skin hanging from her chin flaps left and right. “There was a time when it was a great comfort to have a family queer to mind you in your old age. Now they’re all lip and swish.”
I put my jacket on and open the door. “Momma, you know ‘queer’ is a university word now. Say it too much and people might think you’re a professor.”
“Don’t you smart ass me, Harold. I gave you your Nancy-boy life and I can still take it back. How’d you like to wake up one night hooked up to my chemo? Won’t be impressing any Leaf Lovetrees with a cue ball of a head, will you?”
“I guess not, Momma. Unless he’s into skinheads, that’s a thing now too.”
“Well praise Jesus for his sheep’s perversions. You’ll have me believing that there’s someone out there for everyone.”
If you think that’s bad, you should hear how she talks to girl scouts who stop by to sell cookies. Every now and then we get a home-care nurse, fresh from training, who thinks that, with a little patience, she’ll unlock hidden vaults of poetry in Momma. Wrong. Underneath Momma’s vulgarity lies more vulgarity; though she occasionally comes up with some sophisticated indecencies. It doesn’t get us many invites to afternoon tea, but she doesn’t care. She won’t tone it down for sensitive souls. If they can’t handle it, it’s their loss.
“That’s right, Momma. Get off that couch and let’s get the bus to Pryor. You might meet a nice retired man with leukemia.”
She grins and lets out a watery giggle. “It’s a sorry state of affairs when the fags fantasize about matchmaking their widowed mothers. Your father would roll over in his grave.”
She always says that without taking into account that Poppa has to die first. I last saw him a year ago at The Bar. He was in town to reconnect with Momma and later to steal her Precious Moments collector figurines. He left me sipping my Baileys at The Bar and stopped by the house during Momma’s appointment with the home-care nurse. So with me gone and Momma getting her bath, Poppa had plenty of time to ransack the curio cabinet of all its cherub-cheeked, increasing-in-value-daily statuettes. Momma’s been checking the Muskogee obituaries with her fingers crossed every day since. So if Poppa pays another visit, she might fix him up to do some real grave-rolling.
“Don’t get coy, Momma. I think you’d like cruising around the county for fellas.”
“Get out of here, Harold, or you’ll die a virgin.”
“I’m –”
“I won’t hear one contradiction slip out of those queeny lips, boy. Now go meet this Leaf. Sweet Jesus: Leaf Lovetree. When he was born, he must have tap-danced out of his mother’s crotch singing A Chorus Line.”
“It’s Nordic, Momma.”
“Get out of my house.”
“I love you, Momma.”
“I love you too, you ornery faggot.”
◆
That must be Leaf leaning against The Bomb. It’s been there without incident for months, but only an out-of-towner would touch it. Even the Pryorites across the lake have pulled their heads out of their well-fed asses long enough to hear that the government hasn’t defused it. Mayor Stubblefield tried to get the army to fix it, but Washington isn’t taking calls from Salina. Hell, not even Oklahoma City takes our calls.
I guess it doesn’t matter. We’re so used to The Bomb that it’s becoming a source of town pride, like a local monster or a monument to bad luck. They should put some supports around it though; with tornado season coming, the winds might tip it over. But nobody goes near it apart from free-roaming children and out-of-towners. This particular out-of-towner – with his round nose, round face and round belly – looks like an amicable cartoon tax collector come to life. Not exactly the Viking I’d imagined; but you can’t expect too many Vikings coming out of the Ozarks, I guess. He sees me coming and we exchange smiles.
“Are you Leaf?” I say.
His smile drops. “Sort of. I have something to tell you,” he says, lowering his head.
◆
I was right about one and a half things: He’s a revenue officer at the Tulsa IRS office named Melvin. He and Leaf are the same person. When he got his DNA test, he thought it’d be funny to catfish our whole Internet gene pool. So he made up a fake name and address. Apparently it caused a family crisis when his dad got a test and saw an unknown son named Leaf in Arkansas. He says he tried to change the name back, but the site wouldn’t allow it. So why on Earth didn’t he say that in our chat? Momma was right. How much can I trust this Melvin (if that really is his name)?
He leans against The Bomb while we’re talking. Out of habit I step back, but I don’t tell him not to touch it. Why bother? I don’t like liars and we won’t be meeting again. While he forces small talk on me – yes, it’s just as bad as I’d expect from a Tulsan – I imagine an Arkansan Viking on the opposite bank of Lake Hudson, gazing at me across the water: my dream-Leaf, so out of reach. Only a miracle could bring him to me; and then one would drop from the air. A giant swan would swoop down and carry him across the lake. Then mein schöner Leafengrin and I would hide in a thick copse of trees and consummate our relationship, sheltered from Momma and the gods.
“Could I have your number? It’d be nice to meet again, maybe when you’re less busy.” Melvin sounds like he has a fig trapped in the back of his nose. Not an ideal voice for interrupting a fantasy.
I give him the landline. Only Momma answers it, and that’s just when she’s expecting a prescription delivery. As Melvin drives off I try to revive the swan fantasy, but it isn’t the same. I have to accept it. Leaf isn’t real. Considering that my sex life has been imaginary ever since Momma became couchridden, I should be used to it. But I’m not.
Not that I’m complaining. It’s a good problem. The doctors said she didn’t have long to live three years ago when her legs became too brittle for exercise. She’s outlasted all their predictions and she might even be getting better. But it’s still hard to go anywhere farther than Pryor without someone else in the house watching over her. Unfortunately, Momma’s like Wagner and chicken foot salad, an acquired taste, and I seem to be the only connoisseur. So for romance I’ve got two options: dreaming of heros on giant swans or an internet full of catfishing Melvins. I’ll take the swans.
◆
When I turn onto our street, there’s a rusty Ford parked out front: Poppa’s truck. Ever since he ran off to Muskogee, he’s kept that heap running on luck and a string of mechanic girlfriends. If he’s here, he’s run out of one or the other. I hear Momma swearing at him from three houses away. If the rest of the street wasn’t abandoned, the neighbors would call the police.
I puff out my chest as I walk to the door. Poppa’s like a lizard, he scares whenever anyone bigger comes along. So I kick the door open. “What’s all this noise?”
Poppa’s in a corner. There’s a broken vase and a handful of wilted black-eyed Susans at his feet. His hair is wet and spotted with old flower petals. Cancer hasn’t taken Momma’s aim. She’s leaning off the couch like she’s ready to jump up swinging. One wrong move from Poppa and she’d do it too, even if the effort sapped the last of the working marrow from her spine. Oxygen tanks and IVs aside, with her head held up and her haunches taking a seat cushion each, she looks like a turkey guarding its final clutch of eggs.
“There’s my Harold, the returning homo come to save the day,” she says. “Your windbag father is moving back for however long it takes me to die.”
Poppa looks at me and lets out a raspy chuckle, the ghost of a laugh. He hasn’t been able to speak for years, not since his vocal cords were burned away. It happened after a long night at The Bar when his drinking buddies dared him to chase a tequila shot with gulp of bleach. Poppa never ran with a bright crowd. He always says (said), “Friends don’t check friends’ IQs, especially when they’re buying the booze.”
“For a windbag he isn’t much of a talker, Momma.”
She giggles. “The only wind this one made was in bed. Jesus knows I’ve never slept with as gassy a man as your father. Lord, it was so regular, it felt like the farts were marking the pace for him.”
“Momma, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about sex, Harold. Something you’d do well to reacquaint yourself with if you want to keep your Momma from worries.”
As if on cue, Poppa nods to the bathroom. He winks at me as he shuts the door.
“Don’t you use up our good aloe vera wipes,” Momma yells after him. “Or I’ll have a roll of sandpaper for you tomorrow.”
She holds her head up and looks at me askance, daring me to challenge her.
“Do you want me to kick him out, Momma?”
“No Harold, we aren’t done talking. You should listen. You might learn something about your father.”
“I don’t want to learn about Poppa’s bowels.”
“Now what kind of child isn’t interested in his history? I’ll bet if that bag of fartulence was telling the story you’d be all ears.”
“Yeah, me and the entire American Medical community. Vocal cords don’t grow back that often.”
Momma grimaces and shakes one of her pain pills out of its container. “The gas gene runs in that toothpick’s family. So be prepared. Long before you were swishing around the nursery, our bedroom could have fumigated out the Holy Ghost.” She smirks. “Who knows if that wind didn’t sashay your pansy sperm ahead of all the football and basketball playing tadpoles. Lord knows you haven’t been athletic since.”
She sets her pillbox down on the food tray next to the two-liter Sprite. “Why are you home so early? I thought you had a cousin to romance.”
When I tell her that Leaf the Viking is actually Melvin the Catfish, she gurgles with disapproval.
“Harold Blackwater, you wouldn’t know a gift horse if it trotted up and mounted your virginal ass.”
“Momma, Melvin isn’t–”
“–your cousin? You know Harold, that’s a basic requirement for those of us perverted enough to be straight.”
“No, Momma. You didn’t listen. He is. Although, fifth is hardly a cousin.”
“Well, I thank the good Lord every day that my baby’s a fag.” She shakes her pillbox over her palm. “With your taste for family I can only imagine the eye I’d have to keep on you around those sluts we eat with every Thanksgiving. Lord, imagine the baby you’d make with that whore, Tracy.”
“Momma, she’s always been good to you.”
“Sure as God’s knocked up virgin, that girl looks like a hairless cat with a pair of tits.”
Momma shifts in her seat and the TV blinks on to an opera. As Momma scrambles to grab the remote from under her rump, I notice an open DVD case on the television stand. I walk over to it. It’s my newest version of The Flying Dutchman. Did Momma get off the couch and walk over to the DVD player? She can hardly stand for the bathroom without crying. And how many times has she refused to watch operas with me? “Momma, did you start this without me?”
She’s perched on the couch, ignoring me now and peering into her empty container of pain pills. “I thought it was a comedy. The name’s funny.”
My face heats up with a feeling of betrayal. “Momma, you know what this is. Why didn’t you ask me? We could have watched it together.”
She shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “Who says I won’t? Maybe tonight. Maybe I want to see it twice. Get another laugh.”
“You know it isn’t a comedy, Momma.”
“The name’s still funny, smart ass.” She taps the arm of the sofa. “Harold, won’t you be a good little queer and get Momma a fresh bottle of codeine?”
“Poppa’s still in the bathroom,” I say, wondering how many of my operas she’s been secretly watching.
“Well, kick that gassy beanpole out. With that figure of his, he couldn’t have more shit in him than could fill a straw.”
This is being nice. Poppa deserves worse. So yeah, I’ll kick him out. I knock on the door. “Poppa?” I wait for him to make a sound, but he doesn’t. “Are you okay in there?” I put my ear to the door, but can’t hear anything. “I’m coming in, I need to get something for Momma.”
When I open the door, a gust of wind blows a square of toilet paper onto my face. The window’s open, the bathroom’s empty and the medicine cabinet’s cleaned out. I look outside, but Poppa’s long gone. I turn back to the cabinet, hoping that I was mistaken and Momma’s codeine will magically reappear on the shelf. But Poppa’s disappearing act is the only Zauberkraft we’ll see today. That crooked iguana even took the hemorrhoid cream. That means Momma will be on aspirin for at least three days before we can get a new prescription. That’s three days without sleep, with her ordering me around and snapping at any irritation. Three days where I’ll have to ignore the squawks escaping her lips when the pain gets unbearable.
I crouch down and check the sink cabinet in case she has a hidden painkiller stash. Nothing. I don’t know how I’ll tell her this. Then, on the floor, I see three codeine pills nestled up next to the toilet. Poppa must have taken a pre-escape dose and dropped them. Three pills might keep Momma until Sunday – No – late Saturday at best. That gives me a day to find Poppa before he’s downed the whole bottle.
The Flight of the Valkyries starts playing in the living room. That’s the ringtone I set on the landline as a joke. Momma kept it. It’s a synthesizer version, but nonetheless it makes me feel strong, like a Brünnhilde. Fate chose that caller to tell me who I am and what I have to do. Momma picks up, interrupting the synth-cymbal clash. She’s hardly said hello before I hear her laughing.
“Harold, get your dainty ass on the phone. It’s that Melvin fella. You know, the one who you’re hardly related to. So try to sexy up that Tinkerbell voice of yours.”
I come into the living room and take the phone from Momma. She squints her eyes at me. “You forgot to get my pills.”
I look out the front window. Poppa’s truck has disappeared. I hand Momma the three pills I found by the toilet and I take the phone. “Hello, Melvin.”
“Harold,” his voice sounds deeper on the phone than it did in person, “I want to say I’m sorry again. I was so nervous when we met–”
“Sure, do you think you could give me a lift?” I respond.
“A romantic, like your Poppa,” Momma giggles, then looks at the pills in her hand. “Why didn’t you bring me the bottle?”
“Okay,” Melvin responds with a quiver. “Where to?”
“Maybe Muskogee. Can you do it?”
He hesitates. “Sure, can you tell me–”
“Thanks,” I interrupt. “Meet me at The Bomb. I’m heading there now.”
Momma squints at me and purses her lips as I hang up. “Harold, what were you talking about and where’s my pill bottle?”
“I’m riding a gift horse, Momma. Poppa swiped the bottle. I found these on the floor.”
She grimaces and shifts on the couch like she does when “the ass tumors start to tickle.” She pops one of the pills into her mouth.
“Angels of Sodom, I thought he’d have the courtesy to bed me this time before screwing me over.” She sighs. “Give me that phone, Harold. I’d better call an ambulance or those ER doctors won’t think it’s serious.”
I hadn’t thought that Momma might call her own squad of EMT Brünnhildes to save her. My face warms up with jealousy. It doesn’t seem right. I puff out my chest.
“Don’t bother, Momma. That’s my job. I’ll get your pills back.”
She shakes her head at me. “Harold, let me take care of myself. Why don’t you go see if you can’t get that Melvin fella knocked up? Does he have a comfortable car?”
◆
I walk to The Bomb, thinking about Poppa’s rake-pole frame. How could I not see that he was home for drugs. I imagine finding him and wresting the bottle out of his bony fingers. That’s assuming he isn’t passed out in a codeine cloud. In that case, I’ll take the bottle and leave him an angry note. Unless one of his muscular girlfriends is guarding him.
Melvin is leaning against The Bomb like before.
“You shouldn’t touch that thing,” I say. “The military hasn’t defused it yet.”
He looks over his glasses at me, “Are you sure?” He pats a panel and it rings hollow, like a muffled chapel bell. He puts his ear next to it and knocks again. My throat tightens and I step back.
He looks at me and shrugs. “I don’t think there’s any reason for fear. It sounds empty.”
“I’m not afraid. I’m prudent.” My prudence tells me we have to get going. Poppa could already be halfway to Muskogee. “Where’s your car?”
He blinks “Really, you shouldn’t be afraid. Come over here and touch it.” He pats The Bomb again.
“Melvin, we don’t have time for this.”
“What’s the rush?” His voice trembles like he’s holding down a stutter. “Come here and show me you aren’t scared of this thing and then we’ll go.” He looks at me expectantly.
Why did I think a Tulsan would be any more mature than a Pryorite? Is there something about big town air that makes people act like high schoolers? I walk to The Bomb for the first time since it landed three months ago and I plant a finger on it. The metal is ribbed like snakeskin. I pull my hand away.
“Satisfied? Can we go to the car now?”
He cocks his head. “This thing scares you Salinans, doesn’t it? You know it was defused. It was in all the papers, even the Tulsa World.”
Melvin isn’t turning out to be my unlikely hero on a swan. He’s looking more like an out-of-towner that comes here to fish, bed a hick and leave without giving Salina anything except a venereal disease. Maybe I should get a bus to Muskogee instead. “Sure Melvin.” My throat tightens. “What would we know about it? We just live here.”
Melvin’s forehead wrinkles into rows of vexed lines. I guess big-city news snobs don’t like being challenged. “I’m sorry,” he stutters. “What was reported here?”
This is embarrassing to watch. Yeah, I’ll take the bus. It’ll add another ten hours to the trip but at least I won’t have some mole-eyed Tulsan lecturing me about my town. “Forget it, Melvin.” I walk away.
“Wait, Harold.”
I keep walking.
“Harold.”
I don’t turn around until I hear grunts and a sound like a warped church bell. I turn and see Melvin kicking The Bomb with everything he has.
“Melvin, stop.”
His last kick rings against the side of The Bomb like a hammer on an anvil. He turns and walks forward, positioning himself between me and The Bomb. There’s a little limp in his right leg and his glasses teeter on the tip of his nose.
“Do you still want a ride?”
For a few clueless seconds, he waits for my response, which would have been “No” by the way – until he groveled a bit. Then The Bomb lets out a wobbly sound, like strained rubber bands. Behind Melvin, I see it tipping backwards. He turns back as its nose pops out of the ground, flinging a clod of dirt and stones into his round-as-a-target face and knocking his glasses off. The Bomb thuds onto the ground and Melvin falls to his knees, sputtering and wiping his eyes like a ferret cleaning its face. He looks at his hands and I hear him mumble before his spine stiffens and he collapses.
I admit that I hesitate before going to see if he’s alright. Who wouldn’t? The Bomb’s new signs of life don’t make this particular block an attractive one. I remember how all of Salina shook when the other one blew up the town hall. If this one still has a forgotten fuse sparking somewhere inside, it’ll make barbecue out of us no matter what. “Melvin,” I say, hoping he’ll get up. He doesn’t budge. So I start creeping over to where he’s lying. Damn it, Poppa’s going to get away again. It’s so unfair, the old pirate. I imagine him yo-ho-hoing and running off to a cave where Momma’s increasing-in-value-daily Precious Moments figurines perch on the tips of stalagmites and the rock floor is littered with empty codeine bottles. I should be storming this treasure trove, but my only ride is unconscious and next to him is a bomb. At least it isn’t making any sounds. That’s reassuring.
Do explosives go silent before they blow?
When I reach Melvin, he’s deep in his swoon and a trickle of blood flows from his forehead; his glasses lie next to him, broken. I pocket them and try to wake him up, but he’s out. I’ll have to carry him home.
Don’t take this wrong, but Melvin unconscious, bleeding and covered in dirt looks like a fallen Siegmund, if Siegmund worked for the IRS. Yeah, I guess he’s attractive. When I pick him up and sling him over my shoulder, he’s more solid than I expected. Back home I walk, one arm hooked around his rump and the other one squeezing his legs. Knocked out or not, I’m sure Momma will be glad to meet him; as long as he doesn’t need a pain killer.
As I get to our street, I hear the sounds of an ambulance. All emergency services come from Pryor and you can hear the siren’s arrogant echo bouncing off Lake Hudson as it crosses the bridge to Salina. With Melvin draped over my shoulder, I stop at the corner and wait to see where it’s going. Of course it turns down our street. As they pass, the paramedic on the passenger side stares at me like he’s never seen a man carry another man home. Those high and mighty Pryorites’ll get another chance to gawk if they’re going where I think they are. Sure enough, they stop at our house and rush in with a stretcher.
I plod forward and when I get to our lawn, the two medics are carrying Momma out, their faces red from the strain. Momma’s eyes are closed tight and her face is as yellow as rotten milk. How did she get her skin so jaundiced? Makeup won’t fool a doctor. Though it could be the pain; the stretcher’s movement would kill her back. Melvin stirs on my shoulder.
“Momma?” I say and her eyes pop open.
She looks at me with a pained expression until she can focus. “Harold, you’ve got something on your shoulder.”
Her voice sounds so tired. My heart thumps out a few panicked beats and I almost drop Melvin as I rush to her stretcher. “Momma, what’s happened?”
She nods her head like an actor shaken out of a role, or assuming one. Then she squints at me like I’ve interrupted her in the middle of an important job. “What in the Virgin Jesus?” She puts a hand on the paramedic’s arm. “Hold up a minute. That’s my son.”
The medics stop, their faces turning a deep burgundy. “Ma’am we have to go.”
Momma slaps his arm. “Don’t you rush the lady you’re bankrupting for this taxi service.” My heartbeat settles down. She’s okay, I think. She looks at Melvin, or Melvin’s legs and rump twitching on my shoulder, and reaches for my hand. “Harold, only rich men knock their dates out first, like doctors.” She looks up at the trembling paramedics. “You know what I mean, don’t you boys? You two look like you’ve spent a few sleepy evenings in the doctors’ lounge.” They continue to carry her to the ambulance, stony-faced.
“Momma, I’ll come pick you up once Melvin can drive.”
As though he heard the call to duty, Melvin’s legs kick. “What’s? Who?” He grips my waist. Momma sees it and smiles.
“Don’t rush after me, Roofie Cupid. Not when these boys have me hooked up to the good stuff.”
If Melvin grips me any tighter, he might crack a rib. “Melvin?” I say, “I’m going to set you down.”
“Down? Who?” He kicks and we both fall. He hits the ground on his back and I land on his stomach, forcing the wind out of him. It’s the most intimate contact I’ve had with a man this year. Who am I kidding? It’s the most contact I’ve had with a man since high school when Miss Kimmi paired me up for a tap dance duo with that soy farmer from Chouteau.
“Harold,” Momma says as the paramedics finish loading her into the ambulance, “don’t you dare use those condoms in my bedside drawer underneath the compression stockings. Your Poppa bought me those when we were courting and I plan to finish them before I croak. I’ll get you a fresh box in the hospital gift shop.” Before the medics shut the ambulance door, she yells out, “Do oral; or use Saran Wrap and a rubber band.”
Melvin sits up and grabs his throat, opening and closing his mouth ineffectually. I crawl to him and rub his shoulders until he coaxes his lungs back to work. While he’s reacquainting himself with air, I stand and a muscle in my kneecap snaps.
The ambulance siren shrieks and it drives away. Melvin squints at it disappearing down the road. He doesn’t seem surprised. Maybe this kind of thing happens every day in Tulsa. “Where are we?” He says.
My knee pops again. It feels like a knife is prying the joint hinge out of place, but I keep my balance. I smile through the pain. “The Bomb exploded, we died and I convinced the gatekeeper that we were in a war. Welcome to Valhalla.”
His eyelids are so flexed they’re hardly open. “It’s a hard thing to be blind in paradise.”
I hand him his broken glasses. He stuffs both pieces into his pocket.
“Thanks, I hope there’s superglue in Valhalla.” He dusts off his shirt. “Could I use the shower to clean off this bomb dirt, Brünnhilde?”
A Wagnerian? And I thought I was the only one in the county. Behind him, from the corner of the house, I swear I see a swan’s downy head peeking out at me. My heart thumps as it locks its black eyes with mine. Then it disappears in a burst of feathers.
Melvin clears his throat. “Seriously, I’m filthy. Can I use your shower?”
I feel more protective of him than before. What if he passes out in the shower and drowns himself? I’m not sure what to do. I’d rinse him off in the yard, but a rabbit ate through our garden hose last year and we haven’t replaced it.
“You’re sure you won’t go into another swoon? I won’t be watching you in there.”
He laughs. “It’s never happened twice in one day, but I’ll keep my eyes away from any blood that washes out. That’s assuming you don’t want to keep guard.”
Is that a joke or an invitation? Sitting on a patch of crabgrass and squinting in my direction, he looks like a mole discovering the sun.
“I’ll trust you,” I say, “But hurry. Unfortunately, I need to go to Pryor.”
“I’ll drive you,” Melvin says.
“Are you sure?” I’d never ask him to drive me to that pristine hellhole, not directly anyway.
“Sure, I live in Pryor. Hey, we could go to the new steakhouse buffet.”
Good God! He’s from Pryor?
“I won’t be leaving the hospital,” I say. His face drops. “But we can have dinner in the cafeteria.”
He has a quiet smile, like a mole. A nice mole. A nice, bomb-kicking mole from Pryor.
While he’s in the shower, I hobble to the living room and sit in the cushion crater Momma’s rump has formed in the couch. Everything is still, like a shrine.