Don’t let the Cat Dust in
when my little sister Evan carried her fat tabby, Pendelton, in a wicker basket past the screen porch quarantine. (Evan broke the seal, Dad suffered a lung infection, Pendelton was adopted by our cousin and promptly eaten by coyotes.)
That’s coming out of your allowance
when we left the bathroom lights on, used too much shampoo or lost the batteries to the TV remote.
Life isn’t fair
regarding just about anything.
Tell you what kiddo
for the prologue to any paternal wisdom.
Evan’s arch nemesis was the girl who lived next door, eight-year-old Jenny Swenson. Jenny teased Evan for collecting earthworms and reading encyclopedias. Evan christened her GrapeHead because her face had the tendency to turn purple when she was upset. One day after Jenny called Evan BrainFace and stole World Book Letter M, Evan drew plans for a cannon that launched fish guts into Jenny’s yard. Dad intercepted construction of the Walleye Launcher.
“Now, this GrapeHead of yours, she’s probably jealous of your intelligence. Just be nice to her. You
catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
This looks like good road fill
when he pulled his truck to the side of the road to collect an old mattress somebody discarded.
Dad obsessed over our gravel driveway which was overrun with potholes and bumps. Thus the quest for Road Fill was born. We weren’t allowed to throw anything away. Tin cans, cereal boxes, yard waste, half-eaten pears, legless Barbies- all Road Fill.
The Road Fill Mission continued, until one day without warning, Dad paved the driveway and most of the front yard because he “didn’t want to spend the rest of his life mowing the goddamn lawn.”
The energies and supplies once needed for Road Fill were now required for building fires. Nothing was too big, impractical, inflammable or environmentally scarring.
I watched as the mattress in the fire pit blackened the air and shriveled the leaves of the poplar tree.
“Do you have any idea how many environmental laws we’re breaking right now?”
“The DNR can stay the hell off my lawn.”
“Aren’t you worried about Global Warming?”
“Go make me a Whiskey Sour.”
My nickname was Daddy’s Little Bartender. I poured one for myself. I cut his with tap water.
Flames withered the lower branches of the poplar tree and the smoke smelled like a seedy hotel fire.
“Do you think I can jump over the bonfire?”
“No.”
“Any bets? Any takers?”
“Dad, no.”
“Ready?! Hold my glass.”
The glass sweat liquor in my palms until it slipped into the grass. The ice cubes slithered like vipers and melted in the heat. My father held his breath and leapt into the flames. He seemed to float over the center of the coals. When he flew out of the other side, his silhouette stretched to the sky in red. Evan clung to my shirt and pleaded, “Help him.”
I siphoned Wild Turkey through my teeth and replied, “Keep rolling Dad.”
***
Deanna Larsen
