Family Reunion

I see all my wickedness laid out before me in generations
several-year disputes hidden behind smiles as subterfuge

Between shuffling of homemade rolls and inevitable mostaccioli
Everybody is measuring everybody else's grandkids
I wonder if the spoons are clean

Humidity gathers in the wrinkles of the family's ancestors
highlighting the futility of the badminton rackets and lawn darts piled in the corner.

Awkward giggles form rows for the family picture
Lining up by self-interpretation of height
Pipe tobacco and baby powder hug me in the closeness

Each branch gathers their leaves whispering that we should
do this more often.

I once asked you when old Hollywood stopped
and new Hollywood spilled from L.A.'s rotted uterus.
I can't remember if you ever answered, but if you did
I'm sure it was glamorous.
Our family photos are exposed bad habits,
my wickedness laid out before me in generations.
You learned so much from the lions you trained.

"Maggie, you're too eager," Nina always tells her.

"Play hard to get, and when that works, play harder." The mantra of the victim of a quarter life crisis.

She's lost in the rules, lessons from those who do life well.


The shit that spews from your mouth chokes. It sticks, like trying to swallow a million maggots. The leftovers of the flies swarming the death of your breath. Attracted by the beer that you breathe, that seeps from your pores, from hours of Blue Moon and sex.

That moment of death when you know the phone will never ring--that you gave it up just a little too soon.

Maggie tries to get her shit together. The cafe table isn't big enough to support the weight of the weekends mistakes. She fidgets with the turquoise ring on her index finger, "Power stone my ass."

She picks up her gun, modern warfare with unlimited messaging. She makes vows.

If he texts, I'll tell him it's over.

Maybe I'll just text him first and tell him it's been fun.

She thinks about letting him know that she's serious, You run too much game, it was fun while it lasted.

Nina sits across the table punching her laptop keys. She works so hard. She is on about something. Maggie stares are her through the indifference.

"If he calls..."

Casual, really. Someone always wants more. She slides the keypad into lock. It's best to have the safety on. Someone always gets hurt.

Mia grabbed the rest of her clothes in a hurry. She had spent the last three hours trying to erase herself from her family picture. One too many days of her mom sitting on the couch smoking crack, smelling like death. Maybe her mom hadn't always been like this, but Mia had a hard time imagining her being any other way. She questioned how she turned out half sane at all with her mom being completely checked out for as long as she could remember. She always wanted to call her mom a bitch and to tell her how she screwed her up by not being there to give her a hug when she needed one. Or even better, some punishment, if her mom would have been there to yell at her when she was chewing with her mouth open, or to even care when she left the house in a skirt that was too inappropriate for sixth grade, but she didn't and that was just the way it was.

Mia shook slightly as she looked at the picture of her mom sitting on the sofa end table. It taunted her—a picture of her mother young, supple, beautiful...normal. She looked almost studious in her bubblegum pink cashmere sweater, gray slacks and dark brown eyeglasses. That was her mom when she started college, when she was going to be a preeminent art historian—Dina the academic. Mia laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Mia never knew that person, and wondered if the picture wasn't just a sham, it probably was. For years she felt sorry for her mom. She had heard the story a million times since she was born, and depending on her mom's level of self pity that day, at many different levels of anguish. Dina sometimes seemed excited when she recalled her love affair with her professor. It was hot, intense, and intellectually stimulating, if that's what you call a hand up your skirt in the classroom. But whatever, he loved her and left her. It was the age old story, retold over and over by each generation of the heartbroken. Except, Mia screamed inside, most people are not as selfish as you mom. Most people get over it and realize that their kid, or kids, are more important than the fact that you dropped out of college out of embarrassment. You didn't have to quit, you chose to. You chose to. Now I'm making a choice.

Mia was finished. She returned home six months ago because her baby brother Doug, who is now 18, needed her help to get to college. She came home just long enough to get him out. It was weird being 7 years older than him and raising him, but she didn't regret it. Whenever she felt sad, she imagined scratching his head when he was three, he would make funny noises until he fell asleep. His hair was never fine, it was thick and poufy, like an afro of microfiber, but she loved it. Doug always insisted in keeping his hair cut short after he was old enough to deal with it. Inside, this broke Mia's heart, but it was important that he learn to make his own decisions, so she never told him. His life was going to be hard enough; she had to teach him to be self sufficient, to raise himself. She wouldn't be around forever.

As much as Mia thought she wanted Dina to just go away, she realized that she was worried about her. She sat in the dark at the end of the hallway to where she could just see her mother's silhouette on the couch and traced circles of the burn holes in the carpet. Dina was on the phone begging someone to bring her drugs. She didn't have the money for it, so she was promising favors. Mia thought about the twenty dollars she had in her pocket. Should I give it to her, she thought. She quickly realized it wouldn't change anything and decided to mail it to Doug later.

“I'll do whatever you want,” Dina begged. “No, no one's here. I mean Mimi is, but so what, she doesn't care.”

Mia cringed and thought I care alright, soon everyone will know just how much I care. The pain in her chest started at that point. She couldn't breathe and her head started to swoon. She wondered if this was a result of her mom smoking crack while she was pregnant with her. Although, Dina said she never did, Mia couldn't trust a word out of her mouth. When the pain started, Mia was 10, she would pretend that she had a pet kitten that was sitting on her chest. That was until she finally got a pet cat for her thirteenth birthday. Her mom had spent all the money on drugs and the kitten started to starve to death. Mia would save her milk from school to bring home to the kitten, but he wouldn't put on any weight. When Mia got home from school one day her mom told her she gave the cat to a friend's daughter, but weeks later a stench came from under the porch that told Mia the truth. She crawled under to exhume the remains of the kitten so that he could have a proper burial. His eyes were missing and the fur had completely come off his tail revealing a bone whip.

She had made up her mind this time. She was going to make her hell worth it. She was going to end the pain for her mother and her family. Although her mom would probably never know that she had been avenged. This wasn't for her mom, this was for her. As far as she was concerned, she had a father somewhere and she was going to find him. She crept back down the hallway and double-checked her bags: Clothes, identity documents, and a shiny new pistol. She felt like someone out of a spy movie and was shocked by how much she loved it.

Darion from the neighborhood sold her the gun but he also asked her not to use it. Mia assured him it was just for protection, but Darion knew better. He hoped she wouldn't get in to trouble, but business was business and she was a client. He took extra care to show her how to clean it, and Mia spent the last week cleaning it daily. She almost worshiped the small back savior.

“Mom, I'm leaving. I want you stop doing drugs. I'm not kidding this time. I'm going to call the police and then you won't see me for a long time,” Mia instructed.

“Sure honey,” her mom cooed. “Call me if you're going to be home late.”

As she left, Mia called 911, “Hello, there is a woman overdosing at 2211 Main St., please come fast.”

As they entered Mr. Chin's, Melanie welcomed them. Jane always pitied Melanie but now she was unsure why. Jane had a nasty habit of projecting her own goals onto other people, and because she thought she'd never be happy working in a Chinese restaurant, she imagined everyone else wouldn't be either. She didn't know anything about Melanie. In fact, the only thing she knew about Melanie was her name, and that was because she wore a name tag. Then again, she also knew every pair of flats, work appropriate shoes, that Melanie owned. There were the pink canvas boat-shoes with black polka dots, she had the all-black cloth tennis shoes, and a pair of green galoshes that Jane was sure had watermelons on them, but since her eyesight was so bad she never could tell.

“What do you think Melanie's story is?” Jane questioned John.

John looked thoughtfully at Jane, it occurred to him that at least three minutes had gone by that he had been talking to her about what they were going to order and she hadn't heard a word, “She's an actress. She works here during the day so she can do theater at night.”

Jane froze in awe, John always knew everything. It was mildly frustrating, but the same time it was exactly that kind of attention to life, to detail, that Jane loved about him, “How do you know that?”

John laughed, “She's my neighbor, we catch up at the mail drop.”

John turned and looked at the menu, “What do you suppose we should have today?”

“Order whatever you want. I'm feeling generous today,” Jane cooed.

John quipped, “Generous or ill? Are you withholding information?”

“No, I just feel like it. Just let me do this, okay?” She begged. She did need it. She had to do something nice for someone because lately she had been so much about herself. And to be honest, she knew that this was also about herself, fulfilling another one of her needs, but she just had to.

“Besides, I know you want me to go back to school because you're tired of my bitching.”

“Hmm... maybe.”

Jane feigned irritation, “You know you're a bad liar.”

“I have secrets,” John teased, sort of.

Jane paused. She never thought that John might have secrets. He is her best friend. Weren't best friends supposed to tell each other everything? She could feel her chest get a little tight. It wasn't that she was having a panic attack exactly; she just started to feel loss. They were adults and adults didn't tell each other everything. Being an adult sucks sometimes. Maybe John does have secrets. Okay of course he has secrets, but what are they?

“Fine,” she answered.

“Fine?” John was slightly shocked by her shortness, but he could tell there was no anger. John never expected Jane to respond maturely, but this was just too much.

“Yes, fine. Of course you have secrets, I should respect that.”

“You're trying to act aloof so I'll tell you.”

“Oh come on John, you can't have that good of secrets.”
Soon they were seated outside of the small restaurant splitting orders of General Tso's chicken and vegetable lo mein. They had asked for spicy and got a medium, almost unnoticeable spice. John constantly expressed his issues with being given American-spice, which he explained as spicy for white guys. The only person at the restaurant that he felt respected his ability to handle abundant helpings of chili pepper was Mr. Chin himself, but unfortunately the last several times he'd been there Mr. Chin was out buying produce.

“Do you ever feel like our timing is completely off?” John asked.

Jane was confused, “Why?”

“Well, the last six times we've been here Mr. Chin has been buying produce, but we don't always come at the same time. We missed Woodstock, the roaring twenties, and I don't know, everything cool that ever happened.”

“John, we're not hippies, you can't dance, and well cool stuff will still happen” Jane was hopeful.

“You never answered honestly about the whole school thing.”

“Gawd. I just have a hard time with it. I got my degree, I don't need another one, and I just can't stomach all those academics pretending like they know what is really going on in the world. Or think about my dad, Mr. Professor. He's such a jackass and then he goes around teaching people how to be functional. It's so hypocritical, and he's so gross. The last time I had to visit him on campus I saw him letching on some girls from one of his classes. I think psychology just taught him how to manipulate people.”

“Yikes. You're never going to let him be human are you?” John asked.

“No, I'm not. Psychology types shouldn't be allowed to have children. They just want to analyze them. And honestly, they shouldn't be able to have children if their wives are going to die during birth. He hates me for it, he always has, he only raised me out of obligation, but shit...” she dropped a huge piece of General Tso's on her shirt. “I wore white.”

“Timing,” John insisted.

“You're right. Absolutely right.”