Raine OTierney - That 18th Summer

Im going to shine your black dress shoes, okay? Mom asks instead of saying good morning.

Ive only ever worn those shoes twice. Once to prom and then again to graduation. They dont fit right, and I always get a blister on my big toe when Im forced to wear them for a while.

Breakfast is on the table. Dont forget to eat. I dont know when well get to eat again. Busy day. Busy, busy day.

Shes left Cheerios waiting for me on the kitchen table. I dont know when Mom poured them, but it must have been a while ago because they are soggy as hell. I poke at the mush.

Do you know where your father is? Mom continues. Rather, I dont need him, I just need his shoes. Im going to shine them as well.

Mom, I ask quietly. Why dont you go get dressed?

Shes still in her hose and slip. Her hair is in curlers. Its not like shes naked but it makes me uncomfortable that shes not all the way dressed. Today its almost as if shes forgotten she needs to put the rest of her clothes on.

Oh, I will, she assures me. But we cant have you perform without spotless shoes.

Right.

I manage to get a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. Its like oatmeal and its a miracle I can even choke it down. Shes poured sugar over the Cheerios, too, and now the milks a sweet, warm mess with bits of what used to be the crunchy rings floating in it.

I push it away and stare at our table. Chrome-rimmed, lemon-yellow Formica with matching chairs. Dads inheritance when Grandma passed away. Ive looked at this table a thousand times before, but somehow today Im really seeing it for the first time. There are glitter flecks in the tabletop, but they arent silver, they are a different shade of yellow. How could I go eighteen years without noticing that?

Are you ready to sing? Mom asks. Shes not looking me. Shes kneeling in front of the sink with the brush and polish, scrubbing away at the shoes. They arent even scuffed.

My stomach gets tight at the thought of singing in front of those people.

No.

No, Im not ready.

I will be.

Want to practice?

No, Mom.

Please?

Mom

Just warm up your voice a little. It doesnt have to be that song. You can sing something else for me. How about I Love to Tell the Story? You know how much I adore that one.

I need to eat, I lie, trying to avoid looking at the bowl. Biting down on a shudder, I pull it back to me and lift it to my lips. Im going to try and keep my teeth clamped shut so I dont get any Cheerio mush but can still drink the milk. We may not know when were going to eat again today, but I know when Ill be throwing up if I have to force down those Cheerios.

Or Morning Has Broken, Mom continues like she hasnt heard me. I honestly dont know that she has. I like that one too.

The sound of the brush across the toe of the shoes has become almost hypnotic. Tch-ch, tch-ch, tch-ch

I think those shoes are ready for the rag, Mom. You might pull the leather off if you dont stop.

The sudden silence feels like an enemy.

Oh! Examining the shoes, she puts a hand to her temple, leaving a smear of black on her skin. Ive got to rub them down, dont I? Oh, what a ditz. I would have made the worst shoeshine boy.

She reaches in the cabinet under the sink and produces one of her cleaning rags.

Cant sing if you dont have your shiny black shoes. Right?

Right, Mom.

Ollie, can you go find your father?

Yes, Mom.

Im grateful to get out of the kitchen, especially when Mom starts attacking the shoes with the rag. She seems so small.

I know exactly where Dad isthe same place hes been for the last three days. If I could avoid going out there, I would. But Moms right, weve got to leave soon, and that means Dad needs a showerfinally. Shiny shoes are the least of his problems.

I slide open the patio door that leads onto the porch Paw-Paw built us when I was in the fifth grade. Its covered in potted plants now. Most of them are aloe. Mom says you can never have enough aloegood for treating fire ant bites. I think she keeps them because they dont need much care.

Its really sunny this morning. Like mockingly sunny. It should be raining or at least overcast. But nope, the sun shines mercilessly down on us all. Especially Dad, who should probably be dead of heatstroke now.

I walk over to the wooden railing. The paint is cracked and peeling. If Paw-Paw were still alive, he would have repainted. Cant trust any of us bums to do things like that.

I lean against the banister.

Dad? I call cautiously.

No ones really tried to talk to him since our neighbor, Mr. Paice, walked over to the four-foot chain-link fence and asked Dad what he was doing. Youve got to understand that for almost thirty-six hours Dad hadnt said anything to anyone. Hed been working, and when he wasnt working, he was sleeping in the hammock.

So when Mr. Paice asked that question, Dad put the shovel down, turned to him and said, Well, Paice, Im building a swimming pool.

Mr. Paice is a nice guy. Never really done anything to us. He and Dad talk sometimes about how they wish Oklahoma had a professional basketball team.

Doesnt look like any swimming pool Ive ever seen, Frank.

Well, Dad, with this totally spaced-out smile on his face (so says Mr. Paice who came to tell Mom about it) walks over, uncoils the hose, and sprays Mr. Paice until he takes off running into his house.

Dad? I call again.

He finally looks up. Sweat is dripping down his beet-red face and his pant legs are almost black from caked-on dirt. There are bug bites on his bare arms, angry and welted, some hes scratched so hard hes made them bleed. All around him, all over our once beautifully manicured lawn, are holes. Some as shallow as a shovel full, some four feet deep.

Dad, we have to get ready now.

Ready? he repeats. No, Im working.

He turns back to the hole he is digging, the end of the shovel striking the earth, pulling dirt away. He throws it over his shoulder. I watch him for a long time. Its such a simple movement, digging a hole. It makes me want to find a shovel and start tearing up the yard too. But I cant.

I need him. I need my dad. I dont think I can sing if Mom and Dad arent in the front row looking back at me.

So I walk across the yard, acting more confident than I feel. Im careful to avoid the fresh piles of dirt and pits, and I put my hand on Dads shoulder. He stills. He might hit me with the shovel, I think. Its never been something hes done before. Hes a quiet guy. Ive never even heard him yell. But I think that taking him out of his trance, he might hit me.

Ollie? he says, blinking at me. I nod slowly.

Cmon, Dad. Mom needs us to get going now.

***

Ive never liked performing in front of people, but this time I might full-on pee myself a little. There are so many faces out there, and it should be comforting that a bunch of them are faces I know. But its not at all. What if I screw up in front of all my friends and family? And dont forget about all these military men. Jesus.

I have no accompaniment, so they wait for me to start.

I clutch my microphone and look at my mother who nods with expectant fervor, sending her bangs bouncing. Ive got Limp Bizkits Re-Arranged stuck in my head. Why dont you check out my melody, Fred Durst?

Focus, Oliver.

Mom smiles againsuch a large, encouraging smile.

A-mazing gracehow sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost

But now Im found.

Was blind

But now

I see.

Good, Im singing. I was afraid I wouldnt be able to start or worse, Id start but I wouldnt be able to get Dursts voice out of my head.