August and then some. David Prete

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      “I don’t need that.”

      “But Jake, look at you. Your shoulder bones are sticking out. You can’t be eating.”

      “I eat great. Thank you.”

      “Then take it to go to the dentist or something.” She emphatically extends it in my direction. “I mean what if something happens to you and you have to go to the doctor? Or the hospital? Take it.”

      “I’ll take some Xanax.”

      “I insist you take it.”

      “I insist you put it away.”

      She drops her arm, still holding the envelope at her side. “You can’t do whatever it is you think you’re doing by yourself. Our counselor won’t say that, but we all know it. You can’t take this one alone.”

      “I’ve taken many things alone.”

      She shakes her head like she pities me. “Look. You tried something, Jake. OK? And I know it’s almost more than I can say for myself. It wasn’t the smartest thing, but I get it OK? You wanted to fix things.”

      I point directly at her chest and say, “Someone had to.”

      For this she slaps my face. Which stuns us both for a few seconds.

      “Jesus, this is like the family habit. We don’t smoke, but we can backhand with the best of em. I wonder if the courthouse security cameras caught that one.” I do jumping jacks on the stairs. “Hey, coppers. Judges. You getting this?”

      And for this I get three slaps in the mouth. Then she vices my face between her palms. “Goddamn you. Stop the fucking sarcasm.” She lets go of me. “Get real. There’s things we’re not going to say in there. We both know that. But don’t you get it? I’m forgiving you.”

      “YOU’RE forgiving ME?”

      “Yes. And neither one of us can afford for you to not accept that.”

      “Why’s that?”

      “Because we’re already family; we don’t need to be enemies on top of that.”

      I take my time backing off her and taking the steps down again. Behind me she says, “You could stop hating him.”

      “I don’t.”

      “Yes you do. You’re afraid of him. He’s got a way of scaring people for good. Trust me.”

      “I’ll take some Xanax.”

      Purple dress, red painting

      Me and Dad would crouch down on the linoleum kitchen floor, only five of his two hundred seventy pounds rolling over his belt. He’d shake the dice in his fist, blow on them and say, “Multiplication,” then I’d call out how many pennies I’d want to bet. I’d put up my change, he’d roll the dice, they’d clink against the wall and stop. “Quick: five times four,” he’d say, then swipe them up.

      “Twenty.”

      “Right.” And he’d give me my payout.

      Again, he’d shake the dice, blow on them and say, “Subtraction.” I always bet five cents on subtraction, it was my strength. He’d roll … a six and a four would come up, I’d say, “Two,” and make an easy score. He’d shake the dice again, blow on them, say, “Multiplication,” I’d bet, he’d roll … “One times one.”

      “One.”

      “Right. But the house takes your money, because snake eyes means you crapped out,” he’d yell.

      “Shhh. You’re gonna wake Mom up.”

      “I’m a screamer in the tradition of … you know, those people who scream. The Irish ones. Banshees,” he says. “Nothing to be done about it.”

      This was homework.

      But often—and it took me a while to figure out why—I winced at his affectionate slaps on the back. At the dinner table I stuck a fork in my palm to dull the gucky sound of him chewing pasta. And I had visions. Him walking into fire. Face cracking. Drowning in shallow water. Me, pissing a poison arc in his direction that would dissolve him on contact.

      It was just another purple dress with a little gold trim around the neck and hem. But for my five-year-old sister Dani, it was a fairy costume. My mom got her this magic wand to go with it—a little plastic one that lit up and everything. In what Dani called her fairy dance, she’d get up on her tiptoes and take these little ballet-looking steps from one side of the living room to the other. It was like watching Tinker Bell run track. She’d ballet over to you, circle her wand three times over your head and say, “I’m the purple fairy and I grant you a magic purple wish,” then crack you in the head and run away laughing. She’d hit you no matter what you were doing; watching TV, eating, talking on the phone … she’d come into the bathroom and smack me with that thing when I was on the bowl. Cute as she was, she definitely had a little wise ass thing going on.

      You couldn’t get her into bed unless you turned it into a game. And the game was always some version of this: we’d all be sitting downstairs in front of the TV until our nine-thirty bedtime rolled around and Mom announced it was time to hit the sheets. Dani would say, “You have to find me first,” then run up the stairs into my room and crawl under my covers. Mom and I would walk up the stairs expressing our impossible tiredness and how we couldn’t go to sleep unless we found Dani. We’d open the door to her room and yell, “Dani are you in here?” When no answer would come we’d call for her in Mom’s room then the bathroom. Yawning with the crushing weight of slumber we’d say, “Oh well, I guess we lost her. Might as well go to sleep.” I’d sit on my bed right on top of her and jump up like I was startled. “Whoa, Mom, there’s something in my bed.” I’d pull the sheets back and say, “Look—a foot.” I’d pull them back a little more. “And there’s a leg attached to it.” Dani’d giggle from underneath. Mom would say, “Must be a laugh box attached to that leg.” I’d pull the sheets all the way off. “Oh my god, there’s a girl attached to it.” Dani would try to run away, and Mom would grab her, bundle the sheet around her like a sack of laundry, and sling her over her shoulder. From inside the bundle, you’d hear, “You still didn’t find me.” Mom would unload Dani onto her own bed and tickle her for about five minutes. Then maybe she’d go to sleep. And if she did it definitely wasn’t a full night’s sleep.

      That’s why we developed the knock system.

      Our rooms were right next to each other and the headboards of our bed were on opposite sides of the same wall, so you could hear a knock go right through it even if it came from the soft fist of a five-year-old. The system worked like this:

      One knock: Come in.

      Two knocks: Goodnight.

      Three knocks: What’s up? (This one you used if the other person had accidentally hit the wall when they were getting into bed or something or were making some other kind of unidentifiable noise.)

      Four knocks: All clear. (This one was usually used right after the What’s-up? combination.)

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