I’m sitting on the steps of our formerly beautiful home in a suburb of Dallas. That’s in Texas by the way. Insane stories of the currently being made great again country are all the rage around the world, so if you aren’t familiar with Dallas being in Texas, you almost certainly had never heard of Flower Mound. That’s the suburb I probably won’t be living in much longer. Flower Mound, Texas. Why did anyone want to live here? Originally some religious nuts found a hill with flowers. If you’re crazy enough for God you’ll sure as hell find him somewhere. We weren’t even a real town until 1961, just a place by a lake kinda near Fort Worth, kinda near Dallas. Later, an airport opens and suddenly this is the place to live. The interstates avoided us which is just as well, they are constantly under new construction to remedy congestion. No one thought to have less people. Which might be the only success of Brixton’s party. What a dumb name. I mean really what did I ever think good could have come from that. I looked it up after he was born and it’s some clothing company. I’m sitting on the steps and Jane is speed stumbling towards me, screaming at me this is all my fault.
“Cynthia! Cynth—GODDAMMIT, fuck-shit-powerwheel bul—FUCK! Cynthia! This is all your fault”
I won’t lie to you in this story—retelling—memory exercise for posterity. I said she was screaming about blaming me and then I quoted her as best I could. So I’ll also have to explain she then inserted a gun into her mouth and pulled the trigger to which I replied.
“Oh for Christ sakes Jane the porch didn’t have human on it yet.”
I’d also have to tell you that I cursed myself, or maybe God, or maybe the gun when I tried to take it from Jane and the desperate housewife pulled the trigger again painting the porch well past the point of saving. And at this point you are probably more interested in what happened over the past hour than what happens next, but I will say it involves more death, revival, death again and a boring trial in which I’m blamed again for twenty or twenty-two murders, involuntary murders, accidental manslaughter, child negligence, drug trafficking, larceny, hunting without a license and illegal possession of early Canada Geese.
The party was going to be on Brixton’s seventh birthday, but I was informed by Jane that her and Clayton were taking Susan, Loren and Trent to Shreveport to visit her parents on the 20th and just wouldn’t be around on the 22nd resulting in Brixton celebrating without their best friends. So we scheduled the get together for the next Sunday, the 28th just after church at our house up the road from it. Well, some of them’s church. Ronny and I go to his mammy’s church on the other side of town that believes the Bible just a bit more than Christ’s disciples. Our house is right across the road from Rheudasil Park with the duck pond filled with what might as well be sewage, but unless you enjoy hopping fences you need to go around to the front. We’re on the corner of Old Hickory and Robin so jam packed like sardines with the pools and largess of each semi mansion it’s a cul de sac with two exits. Bigger, Texas, nothing about better.
We invited Jane’s kids, Martha and Tony with their boys Craig, Robbie, Trim and Conner, Herman, whose wife was killed by a drunk last year. We say it that way being better than explaining the drunk was Carol, Herman’s now deceased wife. Herman’s two daughters Liz and Tracy and the Stinsons, Rita and Jim and little Jimmy and Donna. Including my family we had twenty one people celebrating, a week and a day late, Brixton’s birthday. Which might be against some law. Seems like the house is that last defense from some progressive agenda telling us how to be safe and civil. As if anyone in Texas wasn’t capable of looking out for their own and weren’t just the most hospitable people found just about anywhere.
The Stinsons arrived first which I loathed. Rita always talks too much about nothing she understands and was going on and on about how wrong it was that Ronny wasn’t here starting up the charcoal. That it just wouldn’t be ready in time while I’m thinking in time for what Rita. How her daddy “rest his soul” would say charcoal takes a poor man’s afternoon before it’s ready for cooking while I’m thinking you could have skipped the poor man’s afternoon Rita. Ronny had to go by his work cause the Walgreen’s didn’t have any helium tanks and Brixton was adamant he get balloons. Rita going on about BBQing being more important that satisfying your children’s birthday wishes.
Herman showed up right after. I was filling lemonades and sweet tea after pawning Rita off on Herman. Everyone knew except them and James, I call him that sometimes cause it sounds more righteously ignorant than Jimmy, so putting them in the same circle out in public was like watching two Baptists try to dance at a wedding. The kids are already in the pool hitting each other with noodles and inflatable dragons. We call it innocent, but these winding streets of ubiquity seem to make our children quite violent. Trent supposedly likes Liz and he just welted that girl’s face up like Romans on Jesus and then she turned on him like Moses with a whip. Ronny only hit me once and that was on account of him being a jackass and trying to tighten the engine head of his Stingray without a torque wrench and grease still on his hands and his fist flying off into my face. And before you get the idea that my family is better than Herman or Jane’s, Brixton is trying to drown Trim and Connor, Martha’s two youngest, as a hello to our pool. “Brixton! Do not drown those poor boys. If you wanna drown someone you try it on your daddy when he gets home.”
Tony, Jane’s husband, is chatting me up while Martha and Clayton continue on. I fucked Tony last night. You already guessed right? Guessing isn’t always knowing though. I want to be clear we all guess a lot and then go out trying to prove ourselves right, but I’m letting you know truthfully I did fuck Tony last night and now he thinks Ronny picking up a helium tank last minute for my son, with him, is a cue for a quickie upstairs. He likes my blond hair with the tinges of pink red and how it matches by eye shadow so well without ever so much of a compliment that I picked the eye shadow to match my blond hair with tinges of rosewood and peach. Ronny knows I’m particular about color especially color on my head. You go through life trying to be something that when no one recognizes what’s natural as real you get more defensive about it. You might think then I’m a bad person for letting Tony have me, but there’s more to life than hair color, but not enough to want to suck Tony’s dick again. “Oh thank Jesus Ronny, what took you so long.” I say before wrapping my arms around his neck and shoulders, flinging my hair opposite of Tony and kiss, tongue forward, my husband of ten years giving Tony only a corner of my vision. Tony walks away asking himself where the beer is.
Ronny plays up his surprise as if, like I thought about Tony, this was the time for a quickie upstairs. I tell him to keep it down cause the kids might hear and he makes some mention that I make it hard to keep it down so I slap his rear and yell his name while he chuckles it off. He tells me that his work didn’t have an extra tank so he used Ray, his boss’s, key to the supply company’s yard across the street and needs to return the tank before tomorrow morning. I tell him I don’t care and to fill up the damn balloons and start the grill before Rita tells me how to cook and go over to the pool to join Martha and Clayton and the kids and drink this lemonade no one seems to appreciate yet. And as soon as I sit down the gun went off.
The violent spawns freeze in the pool curious about what new toy is close by. “Cool!, Can we shoot it?” Craig screaming “Burn that meth. Get down it’s the 5-0!!” and then see him dive under the water. He’s eight. Ronny was filling the balloons when Herman brought back the 12-gauge he borrowed to take his daughters skeet shooting. Liz and Tracy didn’t want to shoot pets even though we all told them you can’t have a pet goose or duck. Herman didn’t unload the gun though and it went off when Ronny threw it to his other hand and shot off Herman’s toe. Serves him right, there are children here what was he thinking bringing a gun lock and ready to go. Really Herman! So now Ronny is helping Herman into the house saying someone should call 911. I will in a few minutes, I’m not going to let this party go off the rails on account of one toe deservedly shot off. I ask Martha and Clayton to look at their children for once. And for Rita St. Charcoal to get the grill started cause we got a slightly less poor man’s afternoon till I wanna eat and I follow Ronny and Herman upstairs to the bathroom. It would have made more sense to get the med-kit and bring it down than pulling the cripple up there, but Ronny’s Ronny and he promised me new carpets anyway.
So now I’m wrapping up Herman’s foot who’s chatting me up like Tony and no, I didn’t sleep with Herman. He, I guess, had slept with Jane and maybe Rita or Martha. This of course is all speculation, but I can’t really deny the advances of a man who thinks his dick has got a chance in hell with a blown off foot. And this is only happening cause Ronny went downstairs to make sure he closed the tank cause it was actually hydrogen and a lot more flammable than helium. Tony might have been right earlier. This party is becoming so stressful for what should be a simple grill burgers and bring macaroni and cake. But you know, chicken is the new super-food, and we have to have gluten free whole wheat flavor buns, and the macaroni is reduced carbs and the cake is dairy free. Peanuts are a county away. “I bet you wrap up everything like that.” Herman winces and I’m saved by the thunder outside. “Oh what now?” I say dramatically surprised and hand him my cell and tell him “911 is 9-1-1 Herman, make yourself useful.” and casually rush downstairs. I’m wearing heels cause I know Jane will.
Herman did not make himself useful. He comes hobbling out of the bathroom after me screaming about Martha and is she alright. I yell back to hold his foot above his head and call the damn 911. He says he will and then “But I need to know if Martha’s OK she’s carrying my baby!”
I turn around to scream back at him “Martha had her tubes tied four months ago dingus.” as Herman falls down the stairs and hits his head on the lion head topper at the bottom. Plucking it clean off with his eyeball. I wonder if it hit him as hard as the conspicuous timing of Martha’s ’emergency’ operation. I mean, after four kids what was the emergency three years later. God, we’re gonna be on TV. I pick up my phone and go out back to a scene somewhere between Benny Hill and Elm Street. Ronny is yelling at Clayton to bring buckets from the pool. The dining room is on fire and he’s probably worried about the alcohol. The Stintsons became the GMO free meat they wanted so bad. Little pieces precooked like the bag that shit came in. I think at this point I should tell you my narration gets wildly colorful. Clayton yells back at Ronny.
“I need help with Martha, that goddamn tank took her arm off.” he hollers back.
Least the baby’s safe. Too bad for Herman.
Ronny looks at me and tells me to go inside and I tell him I will not. The kids are excited, in shock, and screaming all of them, well, all but two. Donna and Jimmy Jr. are half standing by the grill which I don’t see anywhere anymore and half on my house. “And the bag of coal ain’t even open. “Goddamn Rita why were you playing with fire? And where’d all these fucking geese come from? Ronny? RONNY! Where’d these goddamn geese come from?”
“The what?
“The geese Ronny. Why’s there all these geese?”
“I’m busy Cynth. The house is on fire! You never ‘preciate me.”
“Christ Ronny, I’m just confused.”
I go over to the pool to figure out about Martha and her arm. “Clayton, I got Martha go back make sure Ronny doesn’t catch fire.” Martha’s arm is quite pinned to the brick wall ten feet from Martha. I tell her to raise her arm up, her—I tell her to lay on her side. I have no idea how to tourniquet a not arm. No one is watching the kids right now, but they seem to have calmed down. They seem to have gone back to hitting each other with the noodles and I’m thankful hydrogen explodes away from the source otherwise we’d have to call that pool cleaner again and I just can’t miss a day of sunbathing. Creeps me out. I try to keep Martha conscious.
“Are you pregnant with Herman’s baby Martha? He was saying so, but I couldn’t imagine him and you, y’know. And you just had em’ twisted.” She coughs up blood saying how her tubes were tied and she’s completely faithful to Tony.
“I fucked Tony last night.” She coughs up blood saying how she thought Tony didn’t love her anymore and she’d been sleeping with Herman for a year.
I have no idea where Tony is actually. “Martha do you know where Tony is? You probably don’t, you’ve been making eyes at Clayton this whole time.” I realize saying whole time at this point is strange, it’s been a half hour. “Martha? Martha?” I say louder the second time around, but I know she’s probably gone. Where’s Tony? Are the kids all right? Some thoughts in my head. Save the living, mourn the dead. That doesn’t sound right.
Tony was never gone, he’s helping Ronny and Clayton. I’m the mother supreme. I pick up the geese and put them into the trash can that should have been filled with paper plates, napkins and party favors with the guy from Monopoly on them. Jesus, kids are strange. All these kids want is violence and money. He’s seven. We never should have bought Monopoly. Neither of us like it, no one does, except kids. They have no idea making money isn’t easy like that, but becoming bankrupt might be. Half the neighbors are new to the neighborhood cause so many lost their houses eight years back. Brixton is trying to get the other kids to help with the fire. He’s so smart, maybe I didn’t raise a monster.
“Brixton honey, let your daddy do it, it’s too dangerous for you.” spilling my lemonade I happily found still iced after Martha passed.
“But Mooooommmm.” he whines.
“No, but Mom me young man. It might be your birthday, but that don’t goddamn mean you don’t listen”
Trim and Robbie are worried I said a bad word. They’re still crying about the gunshot, and explosion, their mom being de-armed.
“Robbie, Connor, Trim and Craig just think happy thoughts for your mom right now, she’s gonna be all right, but you gotta be strong during rough times.” I finish it through the blue straw with, I look down, the horse piece on it.
I hear Liz and Tracey yelling back and forth with Loren and Trent. Trent is finally professing their love to Liz.
“I slapped you cause I love you.” Trent screeches.
“He wants to touch your boobies.” Loren weighs in.
“That’s gross. You’re gross.” volleys Tracy. Causing Trent to punch Loren. Always ramping up for a good fight those two. At least the sibling rivalry of Trent and Loren is still in tact. Poor Susan was never that included. She was quiet, shy while her brothers and parents, Jane and Tony. Oh god, Jane isn’t here yet, I know she will try to blame this on me. She is always trying to make herself feel better at my expense, but not today. Her family’s gon’ be alive which is now a less than 50% chance.
Liz’s turn to yell. “Trent, I hate your shit snot fucking guts you worthless maggot.” Obviously Liz has taken to Westerns. And off goes Trent into the pool. Everyone gasps. Then screams. Loren screams back at Liz “You crazy bitch!!” And I’m wondering where did Loren get a handgun, what the fuck is wrong with us? He fires as Liz and Tracy jumps in the way. I let Jane down, but all I’m thinking about is that since the Stintsons ended up not eating I could have gotten that chocolate double crunch chocolate ice cream cake from Dairy Queen, but imaginary food isn’t what just went in those kid’s mouths.
“Oh Jesus Craig!!! What did you give everyone out your mamma’s purse?”
Craig, Susan, Robbie, Trim and Connor look up at me. All of their eyes near blood shot. I say near because I’m particular about color and I’ve seen so many different shades of blood today that I haven’t had time to look up the proper names of shades. Robbie speaks for Craig. “Don’t be mad, we’re trying to be strong for Mom. And Susan was just upset and all.”
Craig followed up to explain they took a happy candy for each person they had to be strong for. If you’ve been keeping count that’s seven they know about. I would think more about why Martha had almost fifty Xanbars for a Sunday afternoon, but now I’m chasing Liz screaming about running away to join the army with Loren yelling behind me “THEY’LL NEVER TAKE YOUR KIND YA DUMB CUNT!”
He’s seven.
Liz is up and over the fence quickly summoning a barrage of horns and tires screeching follow by shouts of horror. “Is she all right? Was she running from that fire? She’s not breathing!”
I go back and take the pill bottle out of Loren’s hand. “How many did you take?”
“Same as them, and one more, cause I’m a tough motherfucker.” He’s seven.
The house is very much on fire. And I’m so proud of Brixton. He hasn’t exploded, shot, cursed, died or injured themselves. And I only had to yell at him that once. I tell him, “Brixton you’ve been so good, stay here. Mommy’s gonna see how daddy is doing.” I peak into the house past Herman and Clayton, Tony and Ronny are passed out on the floor. The alcohol cabinet’s on fire and I figure I might as well save one family. Ronny is the love of my life. And Brixton is out there following my directions. He listens to me. Ronny loves me. I love my family. I don’t know how we got here. Why did anyone move out here to this holy hill that’s more of a hell hole. I’ve made mistakes. He fucked Jane. But Jane is still alive and sometimes, more times than not I think, the best friendships start from a place of rivalry. She’s obviously Brixton’s godmother now. Martha voided her contract.
“Brixton!” Silence. Well, besides the fire noises. “BRIXTON!”
“What! You told me to stay.”
“Help me get Ronny to the pool. He’s on fire.”
Brixton comes over and we pull Ronny out of the house. He’s asking me about Herman and Tony and Clayton and I explain about hard choices and how daddy’s on fire and we need to get him cooled off by the pool. The kids are sleeping or dead when we get there. I pick up the bottle by Loren and take two for myself. And tell Brixton not to and that I don’t use drugs, but at this point I need to be strong too. I tell Brixton to put daddy out. I tell Brixton we’re going to move somewhere with seasons. Like Decatur or Tulsa. I tell Brixton that our life is going to be wonderful after a fresh start. I tell Brixton “I love you and Ronny, and Jane so much.” I tell Brixton as he follows the wrong direction and pushed Ronny in and begins throwing bricks on top of him.
“I’m gonna drown him and put out the fire, then I can drown Trim and Connor.”
Ronny starts to sink when a brick falls off. Brixton jumps in and dives to get it and puts it on Ronny. My husband sinks and I just can’t muster the energy. It’s too much. How did this happen? And there’s Jane and her horn. Beep beep beep. Why does that woman need three beeps? One’s more than enough and two seems like overkill. Maybe today three is appropriate. Brixton seems trapped under Donny. Hopefully the Xanax kicks in for my conversation with Jane. I go out to the front yard and greet her. We do our middle school dance hug and kiss each cheek. She is wearing taller heels than me. “So glad you made it.” “How’s the birthday?” “Making a splash! They’re all out back, be there in a second.” “Are you grilling duck? Rita’ll hate that! She’s cooking! Cooked herself to death!” Laughter. I can’t tell who’s faking it more.
She walks to the back and I hear her scream as I plop down on the steps. I remember why we moved here. We moved out of that little apartment in Plano cause Ronny wanted to work at a real garage and not at Wal-Mart anymore. We wanted a pool so we could teach our new baby to swim and cookout with our friends. Close to a park for walks and closer to my mamma after Ronny’s daddy died. We moved out here for our family. And I named him Brixton cause that’s where his great-great-great granddaddy was born before it became part of London. When all the people came across the bridge he left for America, newly formed and free from the King. We were searching when we, when I, should have been thanking. Should have been thankful for being—
“Cynthia! Cynth—GODDAMMIT, fuck-shit-powerwheel bul—FUCK! Cynthia! This is all your fault”
Jane is more mad than I’ve ever seen her tripping over the red car Brixton got last year and breaking off a heel. It’s not, you know I couldn’t have done all this. It’s probably all of our faults. Herman brought a loaded gun, Ronny brought a hydrogen tank, instead of a helium one, Clayton had a gun, Martha has Xanax for a frat house, Rita was playing with matches. Can we blame the kids?
“And Jane” I say looking her in the eyes, trying to be right by my former best friends. “Last night I fucked Tony.”
“Oh, OHHHHH, like that makes me fucking Ronny all better. Tony ain’t even my husband Cynthia. Clayton is!”
She’s right. My face grimaces and I confess. “Oh I slept with him too. And I think Martha did or wanted too. They were watching each other more than the kids.” Jane’s screaming again. I should have known about Tony. It’s so hard to know who’s whose husband. Especially that, now, it’s easier to know who’s dead and who’s alive and all I know for sure is is that’s me and—“Oh for Christ sakes Jane the porch didn’t have human on it yet. And you could have picked some better last words.”
I went to pick up Clayton’s gun and Jane shot herself again. “Fuck you Jane. Jesus Christ you gave me a bad friend, what a fucking waste and why does everyone have a fucking—ahoo.” The drugs kicked in. “Sorry god, sorry Jane, I didn’t mean it.” I look down at the gun and fidget with the knobs on the side until the clip came out. There were still bullets left. She pushed it back in and pulled the top back like the movies and a bullet came out. It must not be like the movies. The more you know she thought and raised it to her head and closed her eyes and began to pull the trigger and off it goes. Some one is yelling at me to drop the gun. The officers are screaming she shot Roger. We have multiple fatalities. Holy shit. She’s being tackled. And I just lay back and fall asleep.
The church down the street has held a revival every day to raise money for Susan. I’ve been at a psychiatric unit. My counselor tells me I’m being charged with 19 counts of murder. One for Ronny, Brixton, Jane, Clayton, Loren, Trent, Martha, Tony, Craig, Robbie, Trim, Connor, Herman, Liz and Tracy and the Stintsons. That seems a little unfair because I didn’t kill anyone.
The church down the street had one last revival. Susan died. I’m still at a psychiatric unit. My counselor tells me I’m being charged with 20 counts of murder. That seems a little unfair because I didn’t kill anyone, well maybe Roger, but I’m not sure who that is or what they look like which seems like a prerequisite for guilt.
The church down the street isn’t important. I’m still at a psychiatric unit. My counselor tells me I’m being charged with 22 counts of murder. One for the officer that shot himself with my suicide and one for Martha and Herman’s miracle baby. That seems a little unfair because I didn’t know about Martha and Herman until right before they died. Wouldn’t that be aggravated abortion? Not that I’m admitting anything. I only told the children to be strong. That Brixton shouldn’t drown anyone unless they could drown Ronny. That Rita should show me all that know how about charcoal.
I’m still at a psychiatric unit. My counselor tells me I’m being charged with hunting without a license and illegal possession of Early Canada Geese. That seems a little unfair because they were just flying overhead. We live next to what you might call a pond. And honestly, if they don’t like it they should have stayed in Canada. Or maybe have shown up late instead of early.
I’m still at a psychiatric unit. My counselor tells me I’m being charged with drug trafficking and larceny. Which seems unfair cause Ronny put his keys in my purse and all I can think is Ronny being Ronny so I’m being blamed for the tank missing as if I could have carried it and apparently Martha stole the drugs from Rita and had over a thousand dollars in her purse. Which means she must have had more than a hundred happy candy at some point, but who was she selling too? All her friends were there and I didn’t know and she stole from Rita so Rita must have a doctor. Was it Jane? Clayton? Herman? Symptoms of Xanax include memory problems, trouble concentrating, and swelling the the feet.
I’m still at a psychiatric unit. My counselor tells me I’m being charged with child negligence. That seems a little unfair because maybe we should blame the kids.
During the trial my lawyer says my testimony isn’t—some legal term cause I can’t false witness against myself unless I’m pleading guilty. So no one knows what happened cause I’m the only one that knows and no one’s allowed to listen. I’m still at a psychiatric unit, but I need counseling less cause no one’s allowed to listen. I just need a Xanax. I wish I’d been more careful with words. Parenting really is hard. Who knew the children knew about happy pills? Who knew Brixton was probably mentally unstable? I just wished you’d know it wasn’t really my fault. Jane should have been there.
I’m still at a psychiatric unit. My counselor says I could leave any day now. I still need Xanax. “For Christ sakes Jane, I’m not Martha.”
I’m still at a psychiatric unit. My counselor says nothing and I miss Jane. She hasn’t come to visit and I start to cry. No one gives me medicine anymore and I don’t really want any. I’m just crying and crying and I want to leave, but I have no wheres to go. I’m in a room. I’m on a bench by some flowers. The ground is flat. I think I’m fine, but I’m still crying. My counselor says I’m on a stage and need to move onto the next, but I’m tired of performing and the performance and who is the audience? Are they still here? No one else is.
I’m still here.
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