Tennyson and Brew just stared at it like it had come from Mars.
“What is that?” Tennyson asked.
“It’s a tri-tip roast,” I said.
Tennyson looked like he might become physically ill. “Where’d you get it?” he asked.
“The store. Where else?”
“I’ll pass.”
“What do you mean, you’ll pass? You can’t pass! I was cooking all afternoon!”
Tennyson turned to Brew, and Brew grinned. “Still not eating meat?”
“I’ll eat it when I’m good and ready,” said Tennyson.
The fact that the two of them had some secret that I wasn’t aware of really bothered me. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“Not while we’re eating,” said Tennyson, and he loaded his plate with asparagus, announcing that it didn’t make him a vegetarian.
“It’s a lovely dinner, Bronte,” said Mom; but instead of eating, she got up to clean the pots and pans that I had cooked with, refusing to sit down again.
Dad said nothing about the meal, or about anything else. He served himself and picked at the food on his plate, glaring down with an intensity that was both cold and hot at the same time, like he had a vendetta against the roast and hated each and every vicious spear of asparagus before him.
The silence around the table was awful and simply had to be broken, but no one was willing to do it but me.
“It’s not usually like this,” I told Brew. “That is to say, it’s not really this quiet. Usually we have conversations—especially when we have guests. Right?”
Finally Dad took the hint. “So, exactly how long have you known each other?” he asked, but his tone was strangely bitter.
“We started going out three weeks ago, if that’s what you mean,” Brew said. “But we’ve known each other since elementary school. Or at least known of each other.”
Dad shoved a piece of meat into his mouth and spoke with his mouth full. “Glad to hear it,” he said as he cut another piece of meat. “You have my blessing,” he said to me. “
It was the most mad-bizarre thing I’d ever heard my father say. I turned to see Mom’s reaction, but she was still busy washing the pots and pans, keeping her back to the rest of us.
Finally I lost it. “
No answer for a while. Then Dad said, “Nothing’s wrong, Bronte. I’m just worried about your mother. She’s putting so much effort into that ‘Monday night class’ she teaches, I’m concerned for her health.” He glared at her back like it was an accusation. Suddenly I realized that it was.
For a brief moment I met Brew’s eyes, and there was panic in them. I could see the way he held his utensils tightly in his hands, as if he’d have to use them as weapons at any moment. I turned to Tennyson, whose hands were out, palms down on the table; he was looking at his plate as if he were silently saying grace. No, that’s not it, I realized. My brother’s bracing himself. Bracing himself for what?
And suddenly my blinders fell away, letting the big picture invade my mind in all of its terrible glory.
20) OBLIVIOUS
Enola Gay is the name of the plane that dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and, three days later, on Nagasaki. It flew so high that when it released a bomb, it took one minute and forty-three seconds for the bomb to reach the ground. Actually, I made that part up; but you know what? I don’t care. I’m sure it’s close.
I wonder what the crewmen were thinking during that time between the act and the result. Were they regretful? Were they frightened? Exhilarated? Numb? Or were they just thinking about getting home to their families?
The thing is, once a bomb begins to fall the deed is done. All you can do is watch helplessly, waiting for the blinding flash.
I never saw it coming, but Tennyson did. I think he watched for the whole minute forty-three. It must have torn him apart inside to know that Mom and Dad were about to go thermonuclear, and also know that he could do nothing to stop it. All he could do was brace himself. He tried to warn me, but I was too oblivious to duck and cover.
Maybe I was the lucky one, because by the time I saw it, the bomb was about to strike the hardpan earth, so I never knew what hit me. And Brew? Well, he was the innocent bystander caught in precisely the wrong place at precisely the wrong time.
21) DETONATION
“How about it, Lisa?” Dad taunted from his place at the table. “Care to share the gist of your Monday night class? Or is it not suitable for children?”
Mom slammed down one of the pots in the sink. “Stop it, Daniel,” she said. “Now is not the time.”
“Of course it’s not,” Dad said. “But why should that ever make a difference?”
And then Dad turned to the three of us—me, Brew, and Tennyson—like we were a tribunal of Supreme Court justices. “Let me tell you about life,” he said. “Life is all about revenge. Getting back at the other guy at all costs; isn’t that right, Lisa? Why don’t you tell everyone about your ‘class’?”
“I’m not talking about this!” But she finally turned to face him, proving that yes, she was talking about this.
“Say it, Lisa. I need to hear you say it. I need to hear it from you.”
“Dad!” shouted Tennyson. “Stop it! Leave her alone!”
But Dad put up his hand with such authority, Tennyson backed down. He’s the only person Tennyson will back down from.
Dad looked at Mom for a moment more, both with matching gazes of accusation and rage… and then it was over. Dad crumbled. He buried his head in his hands and burst into tears that went on and on with no sign of stopping.
I turned to my mother, desperately hoping she could say something to fix this. “Mom?” I said. “What’s going on? What’s Dad talking about?”
Her shoulders went slack; and before her own emotions could choke out her voice, she said, “There is no Monday night class, Bronte.”
That’s when Brewster bolted. He stood up so quickly that he nearly knocked over the dinner table and made a beeline for the door—and since it was easier to go after him than it was to stand there and face my crumbling, dissolving parents, I followed him.
“Brew! Wait!”
He didn’t turn back to me until he was safely across the threshold of our front door. “I shouldn’t even be here,” he said. “My uncle’s at work, my brother’s home alone—”
“I’ll come with you….” I reached for him, but he pushed my arms away.
“I can’t do this!” He was furious. He was terrified. “You don’t understand! I can’t care about them. I can’t care about you!”
“What?”
He backed away, but he held me in his horrible, deep, draining eyes. “That’s right. I don’t care about you. It’s over. I don’t care about you at all.” Then he turned and took off like a thief, disappearing down the street and into the windy night.
