headlights—passing in the dark

Winner of the 2015 Williams Prize for Creative Writing.

Aunt Cynthia is wearing her ruby red lipstick again. She seems on edge, fake nailed fingers gripping the ledge of the dinner table. Only I can see. The light from the dining room windows glances off the glasses and the china and Aunt Cynthia’s big gold necklace, dangling over her fat old tits—and her throat all splotchy and red—and swinging, as she speaks, like a turkey wattle.

Then the splitting sound of my parents’ laughter—Aunt Cynthia’s fake nailed fingers gripping, and gripping—and the putrid smell of boiled ham and brussel sprouts and back-sweat—breaking through the din of bad conversation and tinkling silverware. Aunt Cynthia saying something about her neighbor’s dog that ate rat poison and died, left out in the summer heat, crawling with flies—old eyes smothered with death—breath bereft—deaf to the world, but still stuck to it.

Aunt Cynthia stuffs wet, pink chunks of pig in her mouth—ruby red lips slick with ham juice and wine—teeth bent yellow—broken in a skiing accident when she was twelve, Pa says, and never fixed. My ears fill with the sounds of her eating—the churn of teeth in meat—the grating of her knife against the plate—the fat little breaths between bites and the clink of her fork on enamel—

—Dead dog left out for days, she says.

—For days, Ma says, how many days?

—Can’t say for sure, she says, three at the least, he was infested with worms, they say

Worms—dead worms—dead dog—poisoned like a rat with rat poison. It works on people too though; enough slipped into the wine—enough through those sticky red—ruby red—lips—staining the lip—of the glass—the white cloth napkin corner—ruby red—sticky and red and thick on her lips like sickly sweet molasses mixed with blood—dripping and pooling and steeping and flooding—thick red—wishing I were dead or she were dead—it didn’t matter—wouldn’t matter—never mattered.

Skinned—I want to be skinned—to be rid of her—stripped from anything ever touched by her—clean from air ever breathed by her—and bound up in soft white cotton bandages. But my skin never peels—never tears—no—no—my skin sticks to me—her fake nailed fingers gripping the skin—my skin—gripping the ledge of the table again—white knuckled fake nailed fingers gripping—

—Teddy, Ma says, you ok?

Gripping again and harder now—fake nails against my thigh—stuck on what to say—or how to say—

—Yeah fine, I say, I’m fine

Not fine or even half-way there, in truth—mother blind—father stares into space sometimes—dead eyed—still pretending the sky is blue—and thinking he sees through the lies—stuck in lies—clouds of flies—crowded around the dead dogs’ eyes—so thick they might be smoke—or ink. And Aunt Cynthia wrapped in an old cocktail dress with her hair done up in a bun—gripping the newly stained sheets and pulling—whispering things—wincing in shame—dead secrets awake in the blink—of an eye—her eyes swollen red like mine—slipping—in and out—of focus—bracing for what—or what didn’t—what never did.

—He’s fine, Aunt Cynthia says, you fine ain’t you, Teddy?

—Fine, I say, I’m fine

—You just seem quiet is all, says Ma

—He’s always quiet, June, says Pa

—He says he’s fine, says Aunt Cynthia

She flashes a wine soaked smile my way and bites down on a mouth full of brussel sprout, chewing it through like a cow chews its cud—a cow in a badly fitting dress, with gold earrings and heels, and dark red—ruby red—lips. I stare at my own plate of pink boiled pig, glistening with pig water and butter, slating it as fit for the trash—nothing more—not after Aunt Cynthia’s feast: that monstrous beast-like show of greed—still ongoing—swallowing a gulp of wine—Pa passes the brussel sprouts—Ma passes the swine—

—So how was school Teddy?

—Alright Ma, I say.

—Well what’d you learn today? she says.

—How blood moves through our veins.

—How int’resting, says Aunt Cynthia, I remember that from school.

—Do you? Ma says.

—I do, says Aunt Cynthia, It happens like this: veins carry the bad blood away from the heart and arteries pump the good blood in. It’s an amazing thing, I tell you.

—No, I say.

—No? says Aunt Cynthia.

—It’s not—

—It’s not what?

Gripping again—fake nailed fingers gripping my leg—and the rest of it won’t come out—my thoughts too thick for words—I stop—staring at a stain on the table cloth—a dark red splotch of wine between our plates—a drop of liquid red on a field of blank cloth white.

Aunt Cynthia smiles again—my parents smile back—too dim to see—or too afraid—too weak—I hope too dim. At least stupidity is pure—at least ignorance isn’t your fault—though it’s still one of those life long vices that worms its way into you—same as drugs or drink or church or politics—those well loved vices of the soul—those worn out patterns—clung to like rafts in a dark and indifferent sea.

            Honestly, I’d be dead if I wanted to be—I’d be dead if I thought it might help—if I thought there was peace awaiting—or even pain—a different pain—a pain without the threat of bliss. Pain for pain’s sake, and nothing else, I could accept—or—at least—abide—let it take its brutal time. If that’s all there ever will be, all there ever is, or was, then pain won’t hurt anymore—no lack to which one could compare it—no goodness there to make it bad—no uncertainty with which to bear it—no choice left but to relish it—brandish it as life well lived and death well died—if only that were the way it worked.

            Aunt Cynthia’s down to just one cube of ham, the brussel sprouts having long been exhausted—pumped down her gullet like shotgun shells and washed out with the ham water and the red wine. The toll of the grandfather clock marks the hour at nine—time begins to drift. My parents are always in bed by ten—deaf by ten-thirty, it seems—and then just me—alone—or not alone—as it were.

            I watch her stare at the last piece of ham for five or ten minutes at least—her fork in her hand—covered with grease—her hands covered with grease—her face covered in grease and red—ruby red—like lips that kiss—away—the seconds, slipping—each second—slipping—seconds sliding—off—alone—seconds drowned in ruby red.

Aunt Cynthia finally breaks from the ham and looks at the face of the clock—9:16—I know she’s watching it too—her eyes flashing from me to the minute hand—back to the ham—her temper ravenous—drunk on wine and pig juice and lusting after more—always more—ruby red—always more. She picks up the last with her fingers and slings it back into her throat—no bite—no chew—no swallow—

A violent shuddering gag—she chokes—lips quiver and gasp—ruby red. She stands—Pa stands—Ma stands—but don’t move—Aunt Cynthia, groping at her splotchy red neck—ruby red—gripping—and gripping with fake nailed fingers on skin—ruby red—on her skin—her lips—ruby red—turning blue—her fat, old tits shaking in her bra—her hair fallen out of its bun—ruby red—her eyes rolling back in her skull—

She reels—falls back—linoleum breaks—skull breaks—then red—ruby red—thick sticky red lipstick spreads out from her face and she’s dead— ruby red—slick with red—her hair matted thick with red—ruby red—her fake nailed fingers limp and dead—all dead—ruby red—draining red from her head—last dregs of dreams spilt across the floor—the bed—ruby red she had said—ruby red. Now be a good boy she had said—ruby red—and don’t tell a soul she had said—ruby red—and I hadn’t done—nor would I now. Aunt Cynthia—dead on our kitchen floor—Pa calling for the ambulance—Ma clearing dishes—clearing dishes—

Ten minutes pass, until nine thirty-three, and nobody has spoken a word—Aunt Cynthia lies in a pool of red—dead eyes fixed to the ceiling fan purring quietly overhead. Pa stands in threshold, smoking his pipe, and looking out at the two-lane road that crosses in front of our house. Ma walks into the bathroom—shuts the door—I think she’s crying, but it’s hard to tell. Cars pass back and forth on the road—just passing—just headlights—passing in the dark—and Aunt Cynthia is lying there and I’m sitting in my same chair—staring at the red on the floor—

 And then—at last—looking up to the door, I catch sight of her wineglass, perched on the edge of the table—gleaming in the moonlight, filtered through pipe smoke and the thick air of night in late July. Her glass—just the lip of her glass—stained red—ruby red—ruby red—staining and red and sickly sweet red lipstick—smeared across the lip—her lips like big, red, wet, red lips and—they were–and she was—and I didn’t—but—I—did—with plenty of sweet sticky red lipstick. Ruby red she had said—ruby red.