Spectacle: Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

brother called me and said, What the fuck, and I said, What, and he said, What the fuck, and I said, Grow up.
    There are no more details to tell.
    There is no reason to go into the why of my father.
    Or the why of madness, which I cannot answer.
    Or the why of addiction, which I also cannot answer.
    Or the why of poor, which I also cannot answer.
    Suffice it to say it’s always about a loss of something. Then a loss of some things. Then a loss of all things.
    Then he was already dead, some might say.
    What do you mean, I might say back.
    If he had already lost everything, some might say, then he was already dead.
    Yes, I might say.
    Then you didn’t kill him, some might say as they moved toward me.
    That’s not the point.
    Then what is.
    The doctor said he was sorry for our loss.
    My brother said, You did the right thing.
    Then a lot of serious shit happened in a lot of serious places. My mother drove to work. The doctor flipped a switch. My brother made coffee. The sun rose somewhere, set somewhere else. A brown recluse hunched in the dust.
    And the truth is I don’t always leave in the mornings.
    Some mornings the guy wants to get to work, and so I have to leave, but the truth is I don’t want to.
    Some mornings I’m still lying in their beds, and they’re like, You need to leave, and I just lie there staring at their backs.
    Some mornings I note the rib cage. I note the organs seething beneath the rib cage. I note the fragility of what does not, at night, seem fragile.
    Some mornings I am not the whore they want me to be.
    I am not the killer they want me to be.
    Some mornings I try to no avail. To absolutely no avail. To no avail I try, and they get up to make coffee, and I get up and step into my skirt, and I pull on my shirt and walk home.
    And the woman performs happy woman on a sunny street.
    The woman performs this all feels good this all feels really good.
    The woman pulls it together. She pulls it tight. She further tightens that which tightens.
    There were late nights he would call from a pay phone, a friend’s house, a hospital, and because it was late, and because I was not poor, and because I was not ferociously mad, but, rather, mad mad, a machine answered my phone and lied that I wasn’t there eating in bed, watching TV, lied that I would return the call.
    The machine would then say, Hello, stranger.
    The machine would then say, It’s your father, stranger.
    There were voices in the background.
    There was traffic in the background.
    I’m okay, stranger, the machine would then say.
    There was screaming in the background.
    There was me in my bedroom.
    Pick up the phone, the machine would say loudly.
    I know you’re there, the machine would say louder.
    There was me turning the TV all the way up.
    There was every poor soul looking downward.
    There was me not believing in the soul.
    There was me waiting, counting seconds, staring at the wall.
    My mother said good-bye and disconnected first. Then the doctor said good-bye and disconnected. After the doctor disconnected, there was silence, but I said, Hello. I was hoping my brother was still on the line. I wanted to laugh or something. I said hello again, but my brother had disconnected too.
    And before I ran downstairs to the massive kitchen that was my kitchen, I sat on the edge of my bed, still holding the phone.
    I imagined the doctor arriving home that morning.
    I imagined the doctor taking off his scrubs, washing his hands, and climbing into bed with his beautiful wife.
    I imagined him easing into his wife’s heat, the way I once eased into my ex’s heat.
    Before we had a sense of what came next.
    Before we had a sense that something came next.
    Firefighting.
    Warrensburg, Missouri.
    Me in my bed eating cold lo mein.
    Me eating egg rolls, watching TV.
    You have to trust me.
    There was no grand scheme.
    I would quit my job. I would leave that place. I would cross the state line. I would cross another. I would cross another.
    And here I am now in a