John Brandon - A Million Heavens

The psychotic mayor in the movie was spying on a young couple playing tennis, licking his lips. Maybe the mayor was a cannibal. Maybe he was going to have another cookout and feed the townspeople their neighbors. The phone rang and Mayor Cabrera picked it up and said, “Javelina.”

“I’m in nineteen. I was wondering what the story was on room service.”

“That’s a very short story. Your best bet is the diner down the street.

They’re usually open till midnight. Or maybe eleven.”

“I’m watching this movie. I’m kind of in for the night. You don’t have anything down there? Any food I could buy off you?”

“I have some stew I could bring up.”

“Is it good? I got cash.”

“It tastes like stew.”

“I don’t want to miss what happens here. The guy who was Freddie in Nightmare on Elm Street is this crazy mayor. You ever seen this thing?”

“I think I have.”

“He’s wearing some kind of sash.”

“Why don’t I bring you by a bowl in a few minutes? There’s no charge.”

“I appreciate that. I got plenty of cash, but I sure like to hang on to it. I like to keep it right here with me.”

Mayor Cabrera saw the commercials ending and then the man told him as much. They got off the phone. Mayor Cabrera opened a cabinet and began hunting for some plastic bowls, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the stew, feeling suddenly uncharitable, feeling that every little thing he did every day of his life he did out of some pathetic idea of professionalism. He did what people asked because it was easier than thinking about what he really ought to be doing. He served and served.

For days the sky had looked like rain, but only this morning had it begun grumbling. Cecelia and her mother were in the living room, the windows open, the TV on.

“Driving the birds crazy,” Cecelia’s mother said. Her wheelchair was positioned in a way that allowed her to look through the kitchen and out the back screen door, toward her chickens. She didn’t need the wheelchair. It had once been her sister’s, Cecelia’s Aunt Tam’s, in the months before she’d died. Cecelia’s mother had taken it out of the hall closet where it had been folded quietly for ages and had opened it up and polished the hardware and buffed the leather. That was all fine, but when she was done she hadn’t put the chair back in the closet. She’d started sitting in it now and then, to watch TV, and in time it became the only chair she’d use. The husband Cecelia’s Aunt Tam had left behind still lived in Lofte. He was the mayor, in fact. He and Cecelia’s mother had once been thick as thieves, but now they rarely spoke.

“You ever think of getting a dog?” Cecelia said. She didn’t say, Like a normal person .

Her mother made a face. “They kill little critters and leave the carcasses on your porch.”

“Because they want to impress you and show gratitude.”

“With a dead chipmunk?”

Cecelia knew why her mother couldn’t get a dog. A dog was an actual personality to engage; the chickens were merely a presence, something other than nothing. They generated a busy, low warbling that sounded like far-off weather.

“Can I make you breakfast?” Cecelia asked.

Her mother again made a face.

“How about oatmeal?” Cecelia started to get up.

“Not yet,” Cecelia’s mother said. “I’ll have something at lunchtime.”

“I’ll make you a bowl and if you don’t like it we’ll throw it out.”

Lately Cecelia’s mother barely ate. Cecelia saw her pick at dry cereal, but no real food. Her mother’s loss of appetite seemed planned. It was too abrupt, like she was making a statement.

A woman on TV laughed. The Home Shopping Network. The woman was brushing a cat. She had a big wad of fur in her hand, and was proud of it.

“What class you got today?” Cecelia’s mother asked.

“Poetry.”

Cecelia’s mother raised an eyebrow. “Did they tell you the secret yet?”

“What secret?”

“Of how to write poetry. There’s a secret to everything, you know. They don’t want you to think so, but there is. There’s a trick.” Cecelia’s mother held still, looking upward. Cecelia thought she was thinking about artists and their esoteric know-how until she clicked her cheek and said, “They’re not making a peep.” The chickens.

“I took the class so I could write good song lyrics,” Cecelia offered. She would’ve dropped the class when she’d dropped music history, because writing song lyrics was no longer in her plans, but she needed nine credits in order to keep her scholarship.

“I don’t care for lyrics,” Cecelia’s mother said. “Or people banging on drums. I like it when you play your guitar.”

“I know you do.”

“Why don’t you play something sugary sweet for me? Play it loud so the birds can hear it.”

“I’ll play for you ,” Cecelia said. “I don’t perform for pets.”

Cecelia made herself get up and go to her room. She opened her closet and grasped the guitar by the neck. She would turn her brain off and let her fingers strum as she’d trained them to. Playing a song or two on her guitar was a small chore compared to explaining to her mother why she didn’t want to play, explaining about Reggie, explaining about the band being over and the class she’d dropped and the stunt Nate had pulled at the diner, making a pass at her, and the vigils she’d been going to where she would sit for hours with cold hands and a stiff neck thinking about fairness and fate, and that her piece of shit car, since Cecelia could now hear the rain finally falling, was going to leak and Cecelia would have to take towels out with her the next time she drove somewhere.

An oversized belt buckle showed up, sitting on the piano, and he recognized it immediately. It had been a gift from his uncle when he was seven years old. Reggie had worn the buckle for months and then finally his uncle had come to visit from Phoenix. Reggie’s uncle didn’t have kids. He was laid-back, unlike Reggie’s father with all his rules and his chart that kept track of chores and the little bank he’d given Reggie for the paltry pay he was awarded for the chores. Reggie’s uncle drank beer like he was in a commercial. He had a tan. Reggie’s uncle had cruised into town in a Corvette and parked it prominently in Reggie’s family’s driveway for the neighbors to gawk at. And Reggie gawked at it too, later, when everyone was inside, his uncle telling a long story about getting lost on a hike. Reggie went outside and looked in the open driver-side window of the low black car, and never had he seen or even imagined such a dashboard. The inside of the Corvette was a cockpit, like something out of Star Wars . There were a hundred controls. The driver’s seat was sunk down among the buttons and levers and displays. Reggie reached in and stroked the leather of the seat and then gripped the steering wheel. An air-freshener in the shape of a nude woman dangled from the rearview and Reggie leaned in the car trying to smell it. He didn’t dare open the door. His uncle came out of the house then to get something from the car and Reggie straightened up and took a step back. His uncle approached with that grin and rested his hand on Reggie’s shoulder, but as he went to pull the door open he stiffened. He stepped away from Reggie and pressed his eyes closed and then pointed to the door so Reggie would look. His grin was long gone. On the door were four or five neat scratches. It took a moment before Reggie realized the scratches were at the height of his belt buckle and understood what had happened. Reggie’s uncle was cursing under his breath. It occurred to Reggie to say he was sorry but he couldn’t because he’d never seen his uncle angry before. His uncle thumbed the scratches and shook his head, seeming to forget Reggie was there, and Reggie escaped around the house and sulked in the backyard.