Saints of the Household: Parts IV–IX

The red and yellow-orange
exterior lights flash in a firefly frenzy.

I go to the dishes, pull my sleeves up. In the back of my head, I hear Dad’s voice chiding Mom for these being in the sink.

Max isn’t there since it isn’t his lunch hour, but his paintings stop me—they are huge, dark, and daunting.

He’s even rubbed cottonwood seeds onto the canvas. The Mississippi catches the seeds like that. They get splayed out with the touch of water, finding their full selves.

The green chair next to mine where Max is supposed to sit is frayed even worse than the one I am sitting on.

I have begun writing questions about the relevance of each problem. I can solve them in less than a minute, but I am tired of spitting out answers for her. Couldn’t we learn how to build an unbreakable bridge or how to purify our polluted rivers?

She has on her glitzy sunglasses and a big poufy black jacket, and her hair is back in a ponytail.

I see my cousin scrutinize Mom’s face. She’s not anywhere near the Christmas Mom Nicole saw every year.

And she’s out the door with two minutes to spare.

He has still lifes all reimagined in paint—green books, red vases, the like.

Juniors and seniors in Honors English get into two buses to head to the cities for a matinee showing of Richard III at the Guthrie.

Some places have lost their snow, and it’s just bitter-looking. Gray grass, frosted hay, barren trees.

I look up and the ticket and playbill are in a gloved hand.

I look through the playbill, read the designer notes and director’s statement about how this play is a conversation about power, the intrigue of evil, the way our words are means of violence, and how these themes don’t seem so far from contemporary politics and life.

I look through the playbill, read the designer notes and director’s statement about how this play is a conversation about power, the intrigue of evil, the way our words are means of violence, and how these themes don’t seem so far from contemporary politics and life.

I can’t look away from her cheek still blotting in the oblong shapes of grapefruit flesh.

Which of the following statements about the meteorite craters on Europa would be the most consistent with both scientists’ views?
A. No meteorites have struck Europa for millions of years.
B. Meteorite craters, once formed, are then smoothed or removed by Europa’s surface process.
C. Meteorite craters, once formed on Europa, remain unchanged for billions of years.
D. Meteorites frequently strike Europa’s surface but do not leave any craters.

And when he returns, he has a beetle, the invasive red beetle, an early sign of spring in his thick hands, and carries it outside.

It is set to some historical station that talks about scientific findings, discourse around philosophy, and on occasion a BBC roundup of world current events.

Sometimes, when no one is looking, I settle my head right in front of that grimy silver frame on our shelf.

When I look up, his eyes are flashing. Arms bulging and hands wringing.

His face twists, and he leans in and pounds the Plexiglas with both of his arms. Hard, the clear wall reverberates.

The rustle of his page-turning helps me to fall back asleep, the warmth of another body in the room is comforting, and for the hour he is there, I feel a little less alone.

I see Dad when we walk into the sanctuary. He is in a pew by himself, wearing his work clothes.

I am Thomas the Doubter. Not that Dad is Jesus or anything, but more like I need to stick my finger in his side to know if he’s transformed. And right now, I would be prone to digging my finger in too deep.

No one checks on us until all hell breaks,
and then everyone wants to slow the traffic,
get a good look at us, and gawk.

Would you paint me again?
Maybe here at home?

I yield, sure.

I’d met her family,
and they weren’t the ones to
say anything. Not to pry.

I think she’s crying, because I hear a muffled sound of her trying to say something.

She pulls a few worksheets from her bag and an assignment that looks like she wrote the prompt out by hand for me.

His cheeks look ruddy, and some of his hair sticks on his forehead from sweat.

Then he looks up and sees me unaware of his presence. He stands up straight, with those piercing eyes.

I press a button on the till and look at him.

Dawö’chke, be wary of all this sadness. Be wary of all this stuff that brings you no joy.

When we finish filling the beds, Grandpa tosses me a dowel and a knee mat, and his knees go straight into the grassy yard.