Flames
Our mother sat silently behind the wheel.
It seemed she was paying strict attention
to the traffic lights, signs, and the other
cars on the road, but I could tell by her
quiet countenance that her mind was elsewhere.
As our dusty brown Chrysler floated in the
Technicolor stream of cars in motion, I watched
her face, illuminated now by perfectly timed
bands of amber streetlight. Hers was a somber
mood.
In the back seat, Ray-Ray and Alex emerged
from their brief solemness.
"Can we have some gum, Mom?" Ray-Ray
asked.
"No."
Silence...
"Where're we goin'?" Alex's voice
came out like chunky peanut butter tearing
apart the bread of silence.
The car fell still again.
Soon my brothers, both younger than I, began
horsing around. Pinching, slapping, playful
twisting of fingers... "Owww!" one
of them cried out. The other was giggling.
I waited for Mom to snap at them but she didn't.
Those two could've killed each other back
there and she wouldn't have blinked, I don't
think.
The summer sun had fallen out of sight save
for the faintest orangy halo backlighting
trees and telephone poles. It too had begun
to wan as Mom eased the Chrysler into the
gravel lot.
"Are we at another bar?" Ray-Ray
inquired. Already we had been to three, our
car cruising the dimly lit lots like a stalking
huntress.
"Yep," Alex said, a half-whisper.
Mom clicked off the headlights. Gravel crunched
beneath the tires. Music drifted out of the
Horseshoe Lounge -- old, boring music, the
kind my father listened to.
The Buick was parked on the blind side of
a Dumpster, its scabrous rust telling even
in darkness.
Our Chrysler came to a stop. Mom cut the engine
and we all got out.
We each took an armful of clothes, carried
them to my father's car, and tossed them on
the scabby hood. Ray-Ray, just five, tossed
a pair of shit-brown wingtips on the pile.
Smiling, he went back for the others.
When all the clothes had been deposited on
the Buick's hood, Mom doused them with gasoline.
"Stand back, " she ordered us, then
set the clothing ablaze.
During the ride home, our mother seemed more
like herself. We listened to the radio --
"C'mon, baby, light my fire..."
And we each got a fifteen-cent cone at the
Dairy King. Mom let us stay up late that night,
even though there was nothing on TV we liked...
We never saw our father again
