Vernon God Little

I drag the crusty edge of a T-shirt over my eyes, and try to get over things. I should clean up my mess, seeing as everybody's so antsy, but I feel like smeared shit. Then a learning jumps to mind, that once you plan to do something, and figure how long it'll take, that's exactly how long Fate gives you before the next thing comes along to do.

'Vern?' Mom hollers from the kitchen. 'Ver-non!'

four

'Ver-non?'

'Do what?' I yell. Mom doesn't fucken answer. A typical mother thing, they just monitor the notes of your voice. If you ask them later what you said, they don't even fucken know. Just the noises have to sound right, like, dorky enough.

'Ver-non.'

I close my closet door, and step down the hall to the kitchen, where a familiar scene plays around the breakfast bar. Leona's in the kitchen with Mom, who's messing with the oven. Brad Pritchard is on the rug in the living room, pretending you can't see his finger up his ass. Everybody pretends they can't see it. See the way folks are? They don't want to smutten their Wint-O-Green lives by saying, 'Brad, get your fucken finger out of your goddam anus,' so they just pretend it ain't there. Same way they try and avoid the sting of mourning around this ole town. They can't, though, you know it. Their ribs are pressed tight with the weight of grief. The only hopeful sight is Pam, beached on dad's ole sofa at the dark end of the room. A Snickers bar appears from the folds of her moo-moo.

I go to the kitchen side of the bar, where Leona's still working up to her brags; she has to empty Mom out first, so her voice slithers up and down, 'Oh how neat, wow, Doris, oh great

,' like a foam sireen. Then, when Mom's all boosted up, she trumps her.

'Hey, did I tell you I'm getting a maid?'

Mom's mouth crinkles. 'Oh – hey.'

Hold your breath for the second thing. George blows ultra-slim cigarette smoke over Betty as they pretend to watch TV; their ultra-mild smiles come from knowing how many things there are. Mom just frets over the oven. Gives her somewhere to stick her fucken head if no more things turn up. A bug of sweat crawls down her nose, Thk,' onto the brown linoleum.

'Yeah,' says Leona, 'she starts when I get back from Hawaii.'

The house sags with relief. 'Well gosh, another vacation?' asks Mom.

Leona flicks back her hair. 'Todd would've wanted me to do nice things, you know – while I'm young.' Like: yeah, right.

'Hell, but I can't believe today,' says George from the living room. That signals the end of the brags.

'I know, I know,' says Betty.

'You think things have gone as far as they can go, then – boom!'

'Oh golly, I know.'

'Six pounds if it's an ounce, and I only saw her last week. Six pounds in a week!' George weaves a trumpet of smoke around the words. Betty waves them away with her hand.

'It's that diet, all those carbs,' says Leona.

Pam grunts darkly in back.

'I know,' says Betty. 'Why didn't she stick to Weight Watchers?'

'Honey,' says George, 'Vaine Gurie's lucky to stick to the seat of her damn shorts. I don't know why she tries.'

'Barry threatened her,' says Pam. 'She has a month to ditch her flab, or he's gone.'

George points her mouth into the air, so the words will fly over her head to Pam. 'Then forget Pritikin – she needs the Wilmer

Plan.'

'But Georgette,' says Mom from the kitchen, 'the Wilmer didn't work for me – not yet, anyway.'

Leona and Betty level eyes at each other. George coughs quietly. 'I don't think you quite got the hang of it, Doris.'

'Well, I guess I'm still trying it out, you know… Anyway, did I tell you I ordered the side-by-side fridge?'

'Wow,' says Leona, 'the Special Edition? What color?'

Mom's eyes fall to the floor. 'Well – almond on almond.'

Look at her: flushed and shiny with sweat, hunched under her brown ole hair, in her brown ole kitchen. Deep inside, her organs pump double-time, trying to turn bile into strawberry milk. Outside, her brown ole life festers uselessly around the jokey red bow on her dress.

I prompt her from the laundry end. 'Ma?'

'Well there you are – go ask that TV man if he'd like a Coke, it must be ninety degrees outside.'

'The one dressed like Ricardo Moltenbomb?'

'Well he's much younger than Ricardo Montalban – isn't he, girls? And better-looking…'

'Hnf,' says Pam.

George leans out of her chair to catch Mom's eye. 'You're going to ask a total stranger inside, just like that?'

'Well Georgette, we Martirians are known for our hospitality…'

'Uh-huh,' snorts George. 'I didn't see many of those cheerleaders up here, after their bus broke down that time.'

'Well but this is different.'

All the girls except for Pam exchange lip-tightenings. George clears her throat a little.

Brad Pritchard finishes with his ass. Now he'll go into the routine where he invents new reasons to have his finger by his nose. As I slip through the kitchen door, I catch his eye, point to my ass, then suck my finger.

'M-om,' he squeals.