1 

            It was normal by all accounts.  Four thin metal legs and a worn yellow top lined with a silver metal strip on the sides.  It couldn’t support a functioning, familial holiday gathering, but it was sufficient enough for a man and his two boys during their short spurts together.  When it was pulled away from the wall, that meant there was a woman in the house.  One weekend morning, not so long after the spill, it hosted breakfast for the man and his youngest in the corner of a small kitchen adjacent to the living room separated by an archway, against the wall.  The older boy, the one with all the memories, was out back putting his fist through the front door of a rotting red shed.  He wasn’t hungry.  

Oliver’s feathered brown hair shared only small glimpses of his progress as he hovered over a big bowl of his pirate themed cereal.  It was his favorite meal.  He picked out the anchor oats one by one until nothing was left but a colorful pile of marshmallows.  The treasure was always worth the meticulous expedition.  His spoon was a shovel and his stomach an endless pit.  He was huddled atop a creaking wooden chair in his oversized green T-shirt that displayed the silhouette of skateboarder in motion across the chest.  His crossed feet rested on a squeaky rung as he was a tad short for his height at seven years of age.  Jack Riley sat quietly next to him reading about the recent bombing at Centennial Olympic Park in the daily news while dipping his red-brown mustache in a speckled steal cup of steaming go-go-juice.  He was sure that Richard Jewel was the culprit.  Doesn’t add up any other way, he thought.  If Hoover’s boys can’t figure it out, there’s no hope for this damn country.  No words were spoken between the man and his son, and that was fine by both.   

Until the dull silver shovel rang like the recess bell at Franklin Elementary as it struck the tattered linoleum.  Tinnngg, Oliver was paralyzed.  How did it slip?  He stared up into the hazel eyes of his seemingly unaware father in anticipation.  He was good at that.  Pretending not to see.  But Oliver, heart now thumping louder than the sound of the spoon, knew better and if it were anything like the spill, the son of some pastor from Texas would surely stand and remove the leather belt from his fading Wranglers.  Probably, he’d even roll up his flannel sleeves to enhance the swing.  He could hear the jingle of the buckle prong as the thick whip cracked out of each denim loop.  But still no movement.  Nothing.  The hazel eyes still pretending not to see.  He thought of the time his mother took an Ambien induced fall sending her breakfast bowl hurling across the living room carpet where most of the sinkholes were.  She woke up in the early morning hours with Cheerios stuck to her cheek.  She was fond of that memory and reminisced upon it often to get a room roaring.  That was her talent.  Comfort.  Oliver missed her perpetually during these mandatory visits and could never understand how Emmett preferred this hellhole over hers.  Here is mean.  Here hurts because mom isn’t here to stop it.   And Emma isn’t here either.  He thought of her and he was glad that she didn’t have to come on these visits. She has a different dad.  Still nothing.  Moments that seemed like hours passed.  Still no words.   

Until finally the hazel eyes shifted, the V of a widow’s peak pointed at Oliver. 

            “Well, pick it up,” he smirked. 

            Oliver was astonished.  His father wasn’t the least bit angry. In fact, moments after he slid off the side of his chair to wipe the white droplets off an already dirty kitchen floor, his father was sporting a full-on smile.  Why aren’t you mad, he wondered.   

“Hey, meet me out front, will ya?” Jack gestured toward the back of the house.  “I’ll go grab Emmett”. 

As his father took to the rest of the linoleum, Oliver rinsed his bowl and spoon in the sink because that was one of the rules.  He then began his trek across the brown living room carpet, stopping just as he reached the white push handle on the screen door.  

            “…silver…under the stairs,” someone muttered from through the house toward the back.  Treasure, he thought as he palmed the handle with enough force to swing the door wide.  He leaped out onto the steps and let out a belch that tasted of those sweet marshmallows. 

2 

Jack corralled his sons beneath the untrimmed Maple in full bloom that towered over his tan brick house and part of the garage that housed his gray Toyota T-100.  There was an old black bucket a few feet to the right.  A terracotta pot with clumps of dried soil attached to the inside a bit further ahead to the left.  Across the patchy green and yellow bluegrass, straight ahead, sat a flimsy blue kiddie pool full of water.  It had bubble-eyed sea turtles printed sporadically throughout, inside and out.  A bright green hose was snaked through the yard.  His hand shook as he reached toward a short yellow Zebco resting against the cracked masonry behind them.  It was the kind with a closed button reel on top.  

            “We’re going fishing,” he exclaimed as he adjusted the rod already fitted with a bobber and a rubber minnow.  “But first, you have to learn to cast”.   

            “I want to go first,” Emmett grunted, reaching for the new toy.  He was older, so he always got to go first.  Oliver didn’t mind.  He shared his brother’s excitement and was just happy to see that his mood also seemed to dissipate.  At this point he suspected it just might be a good day in hell.   

“As soon as you can hit all these targets, we’ll go,” Jack said.  “Keep your eyes on em’, push this button right here, swing and release.  Spend the mornin’ now, we’ll be sinking worms by evening”. 

            The boys were ecstatic and began practicing immediately as their father disappeared back into the house.  Sweat began to accumulate between their shoulder blades.  It was hot and it was still early as the red-bellied Robins sang their daily welcome to the sun.  A steady breeze swayed the shade beneath the green leaves.  Enormous piles of sand, yellow and orange, speckled in evergreen sat beyond rooftops of brown and gray, just below black summits that were conquered by the speckles long ago.  

From one block down and two dirt blocks over moseyed the one and only friend the boys had during these summers in Manulava.  His name was Bryce, but Oliver often referred to him as the Backflip Kid because he could do them standing still.  He was the same age as Emmett, but he acted much older.  They all met, as young boys do, while racing their bicycles up and down the residential asphalt and walkways a number of visits ago.  Oliver wiped out on his undersized blue Huffy and Bryce said he liked him for not crying about the scuffed-up knee.  Emmett didn’t give a shit either way, so the unlikely peas fell into their make-shift pod.  Emmett had just dunked his grass-covered minnow into the pool causing a ripple that gave life to the cartoonish sea turtles.  Oliver, who missed the triumph, looked down the road just as Bryce cornered into view.  He had a bowl-cut with blonde highlights, a shirt that was blacker than black, and torn Jnco jeans that completely covered his shoes.  He was sucking butt on one of the Camels that he swiped from his father who wouldn’t wake until evening.  His dad wasn’t pretending.  He really didn’t see.  And he really didn’t care to look.   

“What’s up, guys,” he asked while flicking his cigarette into the Riverside Street drain on his way up into the yard. 

Emmett finished reeling his re-grassed minnow and handed the rod to his younger brother.   

“Just trying to show this kid how to cast,” he claimed. 

“We’re going fishing,” Oliver yelled. 

“Fuck yeah,” blowing out the last drag, “you guys hear about the Ramones?  One last tour.  My old man said we’re going”. 

Oliver knew he was lying.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. 

“That’ll be fun,” Emmett replied not knowing who or what Ramones were. 

“You down for some Smear the Queer or some bike ridin’ or somethin’,” Bryce asked. 

“Emmett, we should head over to the jumps,” Oliver suggested, knowing full and well that the ball would be tossed to him, making him the smeared-to-be queer, if he didn’t come up with a better idea. 

“Alright, put that pole back over there,” Emmett gestured toward the front of the house. 

            Manulava rested near the Northeastern corner of Yellowstone National Park.  It was big enough to find a job and support a family, but not so big that you kept inviting people to come with less than ten-thousand denizens.  The words “nigger” and “spic” were often whispered around Oliver on trips to the grocery store.  He took after his mother in the melanin department where Emmett’s genetics leaned toward their father.  It was the place to stop for rest and supplies on your way up to Cutthroat Pass into the mountains.  Bikers rolled through every year on their way to or from Sturgis, often stopping to reinvigorate in the hot springs.  It had a bowling alley, a skatepark, outdoors stores, fast-food restaurants, a bunch of museums, plenty of motels, and a Wal-Mart.  Downtown even looked like the Western Wear in the mall back home.  To Oliver, even with the slurs and save for the mountains, the town itself wasn’t much different than home, but it definitely wasn’t home.  Home was a million miles away. 

The boys were a few blocks into their journey to the dirt track behind Manulava Recreation Center, Oliver on his blue Huffy and Emmett further ahead on his orange one with black pegs that allowed Bryce to ride along, when Oliver heard a loud but muffled crack.  More like an immenseTHUMP.  Probably an M-80 buried in the dirt, he thought.  Fireworks are sold year-round in these parts and he was especially versed in the tune of that particular explosive given his brother’s recent experiment involving it and a toad.  Just then, two older boys spilled out into a gravel alleyway, one holding something small and lime green, the other holding what looked like a black ribbon or scarf.  Oliver could hear them laughing as the one with the scarf kicked over what could only have been his very own trashcan given that it sat on the corner of the yard they just exited.  Emmett and Bryce were even further up the road now.  Even with the extra weight, they were bigger and faster.  But Oliver was intrigued so he slowed to a comfortable viewing pace.  The older boys, unaware that he was standing at the end of the alley, were huddled together now, one holding his green object to the other’s scarf.  Black Cats, Oliver thought just as the boys threw the hissing neckerchief to the ground.  They quickly scurried back past their very own trashcan into their yard out of sight when the echoes and pebbles started popping off of vehicles and garage doors.  Oliver offered a wry smile in the direction of the persistent little pops and continued on his way, double-time to catch up. 

The warm-colored brick that made up the Manulava Recreation Center supported a giant dome on one side that allowed sunlight into the mineral pools beneath.  Oliver always wondered if it were plexiglass because it looked dull in certain spots.  The other side housed a weight room, some racquetball courts, and a large room with green and gray floors that hosted several other recreational sports, tournaments, and even a few teen-dances every year.  Just inside the double-glass doors, on weekdays, Jody sat behind the front desk next to the fountain drinks and the snacks.  She ran the place.  Sometimes she would let Bryce and the Riley boys have a bag each of walking tacos at a five-finger discount.  They always chose Doritos and packed in as much ground meat and nacho cheese as the little bags could fit.  Ian took her spot on the weekends.  He was a zit-faced red-head that wrestled for Manulava High.  He spent most of his shifts chewing on the blue cap of his white pen while staring at whatever ass walked in front of his desk.  Though he was genuinely repulsed at the sight of children.  He would simply place another pen on the top of the sign-in sheet, eyes glued to his red Game Boy Pocket (the one after they got rid of the greet-tint), whenever Oliver and Emmett could scrounge up the seven bucks it took to pay their entry fees.  “Next time,” Emmett would always say. He vowed to withhold payment to see if the pimpled ape would even notice, but always backed out at the last second.  They learned to steer clear of the place on weekends after some trial and error.  They continued around the dome, past the walking path that ran through more than half of town, and toward the river.  Oliver could see the first weed-patched hump through a line of trunks and skirts. 

     *** 

3 

            Oliver noticed that Emmett was already in the house when he rolled back into the driveway.  He leaned his mud-splattered bike next to the Maple along with his brother’s and glanced at the yellow fishing rod leaning against the house.  Time for some fishing, he thought, but had a strange feeling in the back of his mind.  He grabbed the handle on the screen door, it was black on this side, and walked into the living room.   

Emmett was standing right inside the door facing toward the kitchen with his hand on his head.  “Oli, I can’t see…I CAN’T SEE,” he roared, voice shaking along with his body as he staggered back reaching for the wall behind him. 

“What do you m..mean,” Oliver asked as he struggled to sway his brother in the direction of the stiff couch that was upholstered with a scratchy orange floral pattern. 

“I CAN’T SEE,” he shouted offering no further explanation. 

The flimsy kitchen table reached out and snatched Oliver’s attention.  The yellow top was covered in brown bottles with red and white labels.  One was tipped and hanging over the silver edge slowly dripping onto the linoleum where Oliver’s spoon had landed just hours before. 

He could see the faded jeans on his father motionless leg as the rest of him slumped back into his breakfast chair.  The flannel part of him hidden in the corner behind the archway.  Oliver took a step to the left away from his brother on the couch and toward the kitchen.  His breathing slowed.  The strange feeling in the back of his mind was now tingling toward the front.  He reached for the top of his head as if to scratch an itch but retracted at the last second.  Not that, he thought. 

“I can’t see. I can’t see.  I can’t…”  Emmett muttered in the background. 

He saw his father’s hand, resting between his knees, clung to the silver from under the stairs.  He had seen it before in the shoebox when he and Emmett were snooping through the storage space in the basement.  Another step to the left and one forward, closer to the archway.  He could smell the hops, but suddenly couldn’t anymore.  The tingling in his head took his smell.  There was a stain on the wall, almost black in parts, gradually turning brighter as it spread.  It oozed down the matte-white paint like warm huckleberry syrup.  It was in his father’s hair and on his cheek and down his neck.  It ran down his flannel and pooled in his lap soaking the buckle of his belt.  He gasped as his body reminded him to breathe.  The tingling was now full static.  Oliver’s body was once again paralyzed as he stared into the hazel eyes that pretended not to see.  First to the left, it was shot full and brighter than the stain on the wall.  Then to the right.  But it stared back, foggy and dull, as it bulged beyond lid and lash from his father’s socket as if to say, I’ll always see.  The static took over.  Oliver hit the floor as his older brother rocked back and forth on the edge of the couch, muttering and blind.