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Pif Magazine
Pif Magazine |
Hammy came home. Late that afternoon, I watched our handsome brother step out of the Mt. Shasta blue Merkur he rented at the airport. I ran down the steps of the porch. "You look beautiful." I threw my arms around his neck. Hammy and I looked exactly alike. Growing up, people had thought we were twins. Sadly for me, our features worked better on a man than a woman. Hammy looked like a movie star. I looked like Hammy in drag. But I was forty-three and had become comfortable with who I was. I’d never be a traffic-stopper like Hammy and that was okay. Gene leaned on the door frame with his arms crossed. "Little Brother." "Big Brother." "What’s this?" Gene picked up Hammy’s ponytail between his thumb and index finger like it was a dead oppossum. "What’s this?" Hammy poked Gene in the gut. Then they wrestled on the porch like brothers. "Boys!" I went in to check the orange-poppy cake. Hammy dropped himself in the chair where our father died. He could be insensitive. He was, after all, the baby and Mom and I had spoiled him. I walked over and rearranged the plastic cover on the Louis XV reproduction our mother died in instants after our father. I was hoping Hammy would get the point. He didn’t. Instead, he pushed down on the arms of the lounger so the foot stool would pop out. Our parents passed immediately after two police officers sat down on the Duncan Phyfe and told them their son Tim was the Fox Gap Career Girl Murderer. Mom had offered the officers limeade and frosted shaggy dogs and they’d accepted, which struck me as strange, given they were about to advise our parents that their son had mutilated three short-haired career girls who vaguely resembled our mother and me. We moved out on the deck and drank iced tea and Hammy regaled us with stories from the Left Coast. There was the shrink who skinny-dipped with his patients. "Boy, people are weird out there," Gene said. The actor with seven Ferraris. "Some serious cake out there." Gene rubbed his fingers together. There was the Raiderette who did the StairMaster at the gym and Hammy wanted to make his move. "You’re so L.A.," Gene said after each of Hammy’s anecdotes. "This guy is so L.A." I imagined Hammy out west, soaring through the sunny world in a red Miata, the Raiderette by his side, pushing it to ninety down Mulholland Drive. Hammy adjusted well to our tragedy. He’d really carved out a meaningful place for himself in California. My life went to pieces after they caught Tim. I kept seeing images of those poor girls wherever I went. I worked as a dancer at The Camelot in Shapsburg and married a Formica counter installer who liked my act but punched out my teeth. Three hours after we lowered Mom and Dad into the Mintwood Country Cemetery and Mausoleum, Hammy drove westward in a tan Delta 88. But now our baby had come home; home to the brother and sister who loved him. I felt happy and safe. I’d marinated a top round two days for Sauerbraten and served it along side nutted wild rice, sweet & sour red cabbage and sautéed carrots mixed with snow peas. I asked Gene to slice. "No meat for me, just the rice and vegetables." Hammy held out his plate. Gene looked up from the beef. "I’m a vegetarian." "Since when?" Gene asked. "Well, actually, since they got Tim." Gene let the carving fork and knife drop on the platter. "Gene," I cautioned. "What the hell does Tim have to do with a perfectly fine piece of Sauerbraten?" "It’s all right," I said. "It’s not all right. Your sister spends two days cooking for you and you show no appreciation. How dare you impose your morals on others." |
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