Genie used the distraction to kick off her ropers and sat cross-legged in her corner of the wood-framed sofa. Her tube socks, something a clown would wear, with technicolor rings moving up the shaft, kept my attention. And since Genie was scarecrow-thin—sustained by Diet Cokes and Marlboro Lights, no doubt—she could dress any way she wanted. That night, it was a tie-dye sweatshirt-hoodie and deadstock jeans. Better than the going-nowhere, digging-a-ditch overalls Aunty Meg and I wore.
Once we were all seated, Aunty Meg continued. "There. Nice and cozy. What major?"
"Photojournalism," said Genie, with an air of being interrogated.
"So, following a reggae band with your camera for a year trains you for Time magazine?"
"More like Better Homes and Gardens."
I chuckled. Well, it was more like a throaty snort.
Aunty Meg turned on me, the maverick end of her salt-and-pepper ponytail sailed like a wild whip as it poked out the back of her Wilbur-Ellis cap. She even gave me the same icy stare I'd get for crossing up my sins in CCD, and mumbled, "… she protested nukes at Offutt, and I'm the bunny who drove the ten hours to bail—" before she stopped midsentence and turned slowly back to Genie—just like they do in the movies. "You're here for the fires."
Genie said while winking at me, "How else can we light candles on a birthday cake?"
Aunty Meg went off like a roll of firecrackers. I had heard her sermons before, so my attention drifted around the room. The settler-themed knick-knacks and flea-market watercolor paintings that hung behind us. A wide wooden cabinet next to the butler's door, crammed with books none of us have ever read. My eyes stopped on our coffee table. An open tin of ALTOIDS rested, displaying custom-rolled cigarettes. Like cramped soldiers on the ready, they told me, without words, that Genie would be around a while.
Aunty Meg and Genie exchanged verbal jabs, mostly about past, unresolved stuff. Genie had a cigarette in her hand, but kept getting distracted trying to light it. When I least expected, Genie let it slip, "I saw Jack today when filling up in town."
For the first time that night, Aunty Meg had nothing nasty to say.
Genie didn't stop there. She took their conversation deep into the land of innuendo, way-back-when's, and whatever-happened-to's until their fight was forgotten. The way Genie plucked at Aunty Meg's heartstrings matched a superpower.
The electrics went out soon after. I got the short straw to get some candles from the kitchen since "I was there last." Genie briefly lit her Bic lighter so I could find her hand in the dark and take it like a baton pass. Once they were settled, I headed off to bed. The night kept getting colder, and—thanks to my laziness—I snuggled into a winter quilt I had not packed away. In the middle of my goodnight prayers, I heard my aunties bump and bang their way to the front porch. Next was the clanking of whiskey tumblers. Next, they talked above a whisper—on the fires, Mom's plans for me, and such.
Outside my window, the hammock creaked as it swung from the old Bartlett Pear tree. If it weren't so cold, I would have climbed right in, pretending the breeze was Laurie rocking me to sleep. A breeze beyond mortality, pushing and pulling through prairie grass. Like, inhales and exhales.
#
