Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

“I think…” He licks his lips. “…I think something else must’ve happened. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What do you think it was?”

He takes his sweet time forming his theory. So long, I start thinking maybe he’s ignoring me, but then he says, “If it had only been a tornado, then someone would have come by now. We have neighbors. They would’ve seen the tree.” He nods at Mom, smirking. “Your mother would’ve sent in a SWAT team the moment you didn’t return one of her calls.” He sighs, knocking the back of his head against the door. “What I’m saying is, it’s not like we live in some fucking… secluded area far away from civilization, right? This is the suburbs. People call the cops if you drive five miles over the speed limit. Someone should have come by now.”

“Why haven’t they, Daddy?” Bobby asks, fully alert now.

“Because they’re all dead.”

He goes wide-eye.

“Robert!” Mom shouts.

Dad holds up a finger and winces at his own swollen knuckles. “Dead, or… or they’ve already been evacuated. Either way, this doesn’t bode too well for any of us.”

Mom shakes her head at him. “Just because nobody’s come yet, that doesn’t mean they’re all dead, and you know it.”

“Something could have killed them.”

“The tornado?” Bobby asks.

Dad nods. “Yeah, the tornado, or… or something else. Buncha fuckin’ towel heads, maybe. Another nine-eleven. Who knows? It could be anything. But we aren’t gonna figure it out stuck in here, that’s for damn certain.”

“Towel heads?” Bobby says, uncertain.

Mom and I exchange uneasy glances. Neither of us like where this conversation’s heading, but what can we possibly do to stop it? Last time he went on one of these rants and I tried asking him not to be such a racist, he called me a liberal snowflake. I didn’t even know how to respond to something so stupid, but he was positive he’d won the argument.

Dad nods. “Yeah, towel heads. You know, like terrorists. ISIS. From Iraq… the kinda bad guys who did nine-eleven. They teach you about nine-eleven in school yet?”

Bobby shakes his head.

“Goddamn public schools, not even teaching you what it means to be an American.”

“What’s nine-eleven, Daddy?”

Dad smacks his lips, thinking it over. “Long time ago, before Sissy was even born, these guys, towel heads is what you call ’em, they stole some planes and crashed ’em in these famous buildings in New York. Killed hundreds of people. Maybe in thousands.”

Bobby gasps. “Why? Why would they do that?”

“Because they hate Christians, son.”

“Are we Christians?”

“You bet your ass we are.”

“Okay,” Mom says, “I think that’s enough.”

Dad ignores her. “And maybe something similar to nine-eleven has happened again, only here in Texas, which would make sense, if you really think about it. Most places nowadays, you don’t even got real , red-white-and-blue Americans, you know? You got these liberal communists preaching socialism kale salads. But Texas? Texas ain’t going anywhere. And that scares these terrorists. Makes ’em shake in their sandals.”

“They crashed another plane here?”

Dad shrugs. “Impossible to say. But something sure as hell happened. Something bad. Something real bad.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper, unable to stop myself. “It’s not terrorists.”

Dad cocks his head toward me. “Then what is it, smartass?”

But of course I can’t tell him the truth, despite how bad I want to talk about it, so I keep my mouth shut and roll over in the tub and close my eyes for another sleepless hibernation. The tone in my dad’s voice, it’s smug enough to make the biggest pacifist in the world commit homicide.

“ Christ I could use a drink, ” Dad’s mumbling, repeating the line as he paces the bathroom, running his hands through his hair, eyes crazy, “ Christ I could use a drink, Christ I could use a drink, Christ I could use a drink…”

Bobby and I sit together in the bathtub. He drools on my shoulder, half-asleep. Mom’s sprawled out on the floor, next to the tub, and I’m worried Dad’s going to step on her. This bathroom isn’t wide enough for these kinds of physical activities. But who’s going to say anything? The kinda look on his face, I wouldn’t dare interrupt him.

“… Christ I could use a drink, Christ I could use a drink…”

None of us can decide how many days have passed since the tree fell. I don’t even have a guess. Several. Maybe a week? Maybe less. Maybe more. Maybe much more. Either way, it’s been a long goddamn time since Dad’s had any booze, and the withdrawal’s killing him. He can’t stop shaking. When he isn’t pacing, he’s vomiting water into the toilet. No one will acknowledge what’s happening to him. For the first time in my life, I wish he did have a drink. Maybe then he would shut the fuck up and stop being such a baby.

“… Christ Christ Christ…”

He pauses in front of the sink and inspects the numerous objects Mom dug out of the cabinets.

“Yes. Yes yes yes yes. ”

He uncaps the mouthwash and starts chugging the bottle. Green liquid trickles down his cheeks and chin. His Adam’s apple convulses as the container empties. He belches and throws the bottle in the trash can next to the toilet.

“Yes. Oh god oh god. Yes.”

He leans over the sink, hands clutching the edge of the counter, and stares into the mirror. A weird grin spreads wider and wider across his face.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you thank you thank you.”

I can’t look at my dad without feeling physically sick. If anything remained in my stomach at this point, I’d vomit all over the bathtub. He’s sitting across the room, back against the semi-opened door, rambling just to ramble, because he loves the sound of his voice, loves to think he’s so goddamn smart—when, in reality, he’s just another moron. Every time he licks his lips I want to grab his tongue and rip it off. I can’t believe he lost my phone. I can’t believe he would be so careless . Except, I should believe it: anything else would have been out of character.

“—remember that movie, the one with Tom Cruise?” Dad’s asking us. “ War of the Worlds , right? Aliens come down in the lightning, they buried these machines in the ground a long time ago, and they start destroying everything in sight. You telling me that couldn’t happen? You all heard how loud that storm was last night. You trying to tell—”

“Robert, it’s been more than one day,” Mom says.

“Wh-what?”

“You said last night.”

“You know what I fuckin’ meant. Whenever it was. C’mon. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Are you sure?”

He starts stammering, struggling to answer, then shakes his head real fast, left to right, right to left. “But don’t you think that might make sense? I mean, something happened, right? So fuck it. Why not aliens? Why not something from… beyond?”

“I saw a video on YouTube about aliens,” Bobby says. “It was so scary.”

Dad leans forward, genuinely intrigued. “What happened in it?”

“A lady was being asked questions in front of a camera about how one night, a long time ago, aliens came and took her when she was asleep.”

“They took her?” Dad asks.

Bobby nods. “She woke up on their ship… naked. ”

“Why was she naked?”

He glances at me before responding. “They were putting stuff… up her butt. ”

“Oh my god,” Dad says.