Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

“Wait,” I say, speaking without thinking, “maybe it’s the one in the back yard. Where we buried Spot?”

“ What? ” Bobby screams, snapped out of whatever fantasyland he’d mentally sought shelter in.

“Goddammit, Mel,” Mom says.

“I’m sorry!” Despite our current predicament, I feel instant regret for mentioning Spot, who had been our faithful Dalmatian up until about two months ago, when he’d escaped out the front door and crossed paths with an Amazon delivery driver.

“Spot ran away!” Bobby says, having apparently forgotten all about the storm outside. “You said Spot ran away!”

“Shh, baby,” our mother says, pulling him against her breast and rubbing his head until he quiets down.

Dad continues pushing at the door, one arm through the crack as he investigates the scene. If a tree has really fallen through the roof, then nothing is in place to prevent rain from entering the house. Everything in my parents’ bedroom will be ruined by the time the storm passes. This particular bathroom connects to their bedroom. We have another bathroom in the front of the house reserved for guests and Bobby and I, but that one is somehow even smaller than my parents’. I can’t imagine being trapped in the guest bathroom with everybody. I doubt we would have lasted an hour.

He curses something unintelligible and retreats from the door, dripping from the rain that’s blown inside our house.

“Where’s my phone?” I ask, noticing the absence within seconds.

“Calm the fuck down,” he says, trying to catch his breath—but from what?

“ Where’s my phone? ” I lose control of my body and begin shaking. I want to shriek loud enough to shatter the universe. “ Where’s my phone? ”

“I dropped it, okay?”

The tears run down my face. A mutated croak escapes my lungs.

“I’m sorry. The rain’s crazy out there. The wind, it just… took it…”

His apology means nothing to me. I fall to my knees and moan, feeling a great pain in my stomach. It is urgent that I speak to Amy. We need to regroup and come up with a plan. We need to fix what we’ve done. I need her to hold me and tell me everything’s going to be fine. I need her to assure me we didn’t fuck everything up.

“Oh, would you stop being hysterical?” Dad says, looking down at me with utter repulsion. “It’s not the end of the goddamn world.”

This last sentence of his is punctuated by an insane series of thunder booms. The sound arrives at a much louder volume with the door slightly cracked open.

Mom asks if we are really stuck.

Dad gestures at me and Bobby, both of us still crying like pathetic little babies. “You think I’d be here listening to this shit if we weren’t?”

“Is it…?”

“Is it what? ”

“Actually… you know… a tornado?”

“I don’t know. The roof’s gone.”

“Oh my god.”

I take several deep breaths before risking speech again. “What do we do?”

“We have to call someone,” Mom says.

“Who?” Dad asks, amused.

“Ambulance? Fire truck? I don’t know. Someone. ”

Dad leans against the sink, at a loss, sipping from his thermos. He digs out his own phone, dials three numbers, and holds it to his ear. He waits several moments before hanging it up and tossing it on the sink. I have to resist the urge to pick it up and throw it outside in the rain, let him get a taste of his own medicine, see how he likes it.

“Busy,” he says.

“ Busy? ” Mom says.

“That’s what I said.”

“How is it busy? ”

He shrugs.

“What are we going to do?”

Another shrug. “I guess we wait.”

They don’t realize I’m already awake, judging by how they’re talking to each other. Mom asking Dad how much whiskey he has in his thermos, Dad telling her to get fucked. I’ve overheard them talking like this before, when they think I’m in my bedroom or somewhere outside. It’s gotten worse over the last year, year and a half. When one enters a room, the other typically leaves. Absent are the usual pleasantries most kids expect their parents to share. No thank yous , no how was your day?s . Most mornings, I wake up and Mom’s sleeping on the couch in the living room. Most nights, Dad doesn’t get home from the bowling alley until well after midnight, stumbling through the front door reeking of booze, barely able to walk without knocking something over. I can’t remember the last time I heard them tell each other I love you . Sometimes I wonder if they ever have. It would have been a lie, anyway.

At one point in time, they must have at least liked each other. Otherwise, why had they ever gotten together in the first place? Something must’ve served as the initial attraction. Something must’ve convinced each other they were meant to be. Whatever that something was, it had certainly lied to them.

They couldn’t be more different, more… the opposite .

The way they act around one another, it’s less like a marriage, more like an epic rivalry. Maybe that’s what all relationships are like. Maybe nobody actually loves each other. They just argue and fight and have babies and scream and break things and eventually everybody dies.

The outcome will always be the same, no matter what anybody tries to do.

Everybody dies.

The end.

I think about Amy and refuse to believe we’ll face the same fate.

We’re better than my parents.

We’re stronger.

Goddammit, where is she?

I peek around the dark room, double checking the events from last night were real and not some sinister dream. I could have them wide open and still nobody would have noticed I’m awake. Dad has closed the door, so the only light from outside comes from the bottom of the frame. I lie curled up next to Mom across the bathroom from Dad. Bobby snores somewhere between Mom’s legs. That kid can sleep through anything.

Dad sets his thermos down, the noise creating a soft ding as it connects with the floor. He turns on his knees and opens the door until it connects with the tree. A thicker sheet of sunlight slips into the bathroom. The rain has stopped. Only the wind makes any noise now. He peers through the crack, studying whatever we can’t see, then sighs and settles back against the wall. The door remains open, letting in a breath of cold air.

“How bad is it?” Mom whispers.

“I can see the sky.”

“And the tree?”

“Not going anywhere. At least not without machinery.”

“Like a crane or something?”

He lets out an exhausted laugh. “I guess. I don’t know.”

“You think the insurance will cover it?”

Another laugh. “I don’t know.” He closes his eyes and bangs the back of his head against the wall a couple times. “Almost like this is punishment, ain’t it? God’s way of reminding you of the vows you made. That he hasn’t forgotten and neither should you.”

He grins like a real smug asshole. It’s how he always grins. It baffles me, how Mom has managed to stay with him all these years. I can’t imagine ever marrying a man like Dad, much less allowing someone like him to touch me, or even talk to me. Similar types of men exist at my high school. Guys who think they’re owed everything just for having a dick. Delusional assholes who think they’re the center of the universe.

Barf.

Mom ignores his comments, like she usually does, otherwise she would have probably lost her mind years ago. “You gonna try calling again?”

“Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” He reaches up and blindly retrieves his cell phone from atop the sink. He dials the number and raises it to his ear, waits a second, then drops it in his lap. “Maybe something’s wrong with my phone.”