an eleven-year old boy can contain, he glares past the sweat-soaked dirty blond hair which perpetually threatens his vision, watching the road crew on the street in front of the house in annoyance.
"Why today?" he whines to the empty room, dropping his chin to rest on the couch, the back of which he leans against, bare knees on the cushions. Tossing back his damp hair, he lifts a glass of lemonade covered in condensation from the windowsill behind the couch, taking a slow sip, the bittersweet taste filling his mouth. For a moment, the chilled liquid slipping down his throat, and sharply frigid ice cubes falling against his lips allow him calm respite. A soft breeze filters in through the screen and brings with it the acrid scent of fresh asphalt. "What a drag..." Wrinkling his nose in disgust, but desperate for even the faintest bit of air movement, he leaves the window open, gulping down the last of the lemonade. He takes an ice cube into his mouth and slips off the couch, moving languidly across the room to the television set. Wrenching the stubborn knob to the left, the sound of his teeth crunching the ice cube is soon drowned out by the hissing static emanating from the television, the tubes warming quickly, the glowing dot in the center of the screen rapidly growing and taking over the darkness. Static, static, he continues to force the dial until he finds a picture, faded by the overpowering summer sun streaming in the window. Sighing, he grips the set, and moves it carefully but firmly, angling it as it sits atop a heavy oak cabinet so as to sidestep the glare. A sheet of notebook paper flutters to the floor, and once the television is situated to his satisfaction he picks it up. Large heavy letters, written in black marker and a consciously bold hand, but with hearts drawn around the name at the close:
"THIS T.V. RESERVED BY SHELLY FOR 11PM THIS EVENING. (Not open for bargain, trade, or discussion. It's my Bowie.)"
Rolling his eyes at his elder sister's latest obsession, he re-affixes the masking tape running along the side of the note to the top of the television. "As long as she keeps her glitter to herself. She's so weird." Sitting with legs stretched in front of him, he grabs a pillow from a nearby chair, sets it behind him and leans back, supporting himself on his elbows which rest on the pillow.
"Oh Ronald! Please, don't leave me again, I couldn't bear it! You were gone so long last time... you don't... you don't know how hard it was for me... I did things I regret now, Ronald, I fear I would do them again."
"Diane... I swear to you, I will always love you, and I hope you... Diane, I have to go, the government--- but I can't tell you, you'll have to simply believe that---"
"But what of our son! He still doesn't know---"
"Hush now, Diane. I---"
He makes a gagging noise as he wrenches the knob further around. "Stupid soap operas. Grandma stuff." A new picture appears - he pauses, eyes now adjusted to the too-red colors of the purely audio-visual realm projected before him.
"Maggie, you have to swear you'll never tell a soul, but--- I've started working. Robert can't know, but oh Maggie I need this! I finish the housework in the early morning, and am back before he returns, isn't it exciting?"
"Oh but Linda! Does that mean you can afford that dress we---"
Cut short, her voice changes to static as she fades into black and white diffusion, all the drama and emotion brushed away by a child's hand. "Arg! Isn't there anything but girly junk on?" He pauses on a game show for a few minutes, but soon switches it off, flopping back on the floor. "Too hot in here for turning stupid channels," he mutters, laying spread-eagle on the carpet, closing his eyes and concentrating on releasing all the hot air from his body. Breathing slow and deep, he tries to remember what his sister had tried explaining to him one day, something about letting go of the dark things inside you - the sun wasn't dark, but he sure wants it gone.
It doesn't work. Rolling over, he gets to his knees, feeling the carpet burn against the friction of their movement and press into his palms, leaving on his skin an abstract reddened pattern of its texture. He stands - too quickly, his balance uncertain, and he staggers a moment, barely preventing himself from a sharp bruise on the old coffee table in the middle of the room by putting out his hand to brace his arm against it. He pauses a moment, steadying himself, initially staring blankly at the table, but gradually turning his attention to it as his center of gravity returns to its normal location. The heavy but graceful lines of the old table are largely concealed by the lace coverlet which hangs over it. He remembers his mother's insistence on keeping it there - and keeping it clean. Both table and lace had been in place there since the day they moved in, apart from the day just after, when Mom had carefully handwashed the delicate white threads of the lace, wondering if it had been made by hand, and how long ago. Pete didn't think anyone had made it, and had said so with all the confidence of his then-eight years. But Mom had simply smiled, a very subtle sort of smile, with her eyes and fingertips seeming to murmur things to each other just below his level of hearing. And then she had insisted that it remain on the coffee table, and that the barbarians of her family were to leave her this one bit of refinement undamaged, please. Dad had chuckled, and told them that though Mom didn't often make demands, it was best not to cross her when she did. He still doesn't understand, but all the same, knows better than to now disturb Mom's careful arrangement of never-lit candles and silk flowers in a vase on the table.
A harsh clunk and sharp mechanical whine leap in through the window, as he to his feet at the sudden allure of the present. Bouncing a little as his knees settle back on the couch cushion, he leans toward the window, palms pressing into the old wood covered by new paint of the windowsill. The heavy machinery moves slowly, the possibility of movement for such bulky metal shapes astonishing in its very existence. The solid road, seemingly so stable and immutable, is torn open in places, pieces ripped away as bread torn from a loaf. The more complex trucks have just moved away, and now vulnerable flesh comes in to do less grandiose work, near-molten pitch asphalt spilling from the back of a truck and being spread by workmen in the already steaming mid-afternoon. Yellow and orange set against coruscating darkness, as a small swatch of the universe spilled into the suburban summer day, inestimable infinancy filled with aging stars. He watches for a few minutes, his limbs sympathetically echoing the strain of those he watches, muscles subtly alternating from tense to relaxed.
A muffled creak from the old floorboards hidden by somewhat less old carpet; he does not turn to see who it is. The now-empty glass beside his spread hands is lifted, and replaced with a coaster beneath it, the soft clinking of bracelets against glass lingering a moment in the heavy summer air.
"You know Mom would kill you if she found you leaving glasses sitting out without a coaster, right?"
He grunts a noncommittal response, shrugging slightly, eyes still vaguely on the view out the window as he feels the couch cushions sink a little, his sister sitting at the opposite end.
She yawns a little, stretching her arms and legs as far as they will go - a fair distance, given her tall and slim seventeen-year old frame. "Can't keep myself awake today, the air's heavy enough to flatten anyone's spirit to the ground." She leans her head against the back of the couch, her short-cropped hair tickling her neck, where it is not already plastered to her skin by humidity. "Not a thing to do today until he's on T.V. tonight. Well there's my room, but it's not as bad as it was last week, and anyway it's stifling up there, Mom can't expect me to do anything in that much heat. It's kind of nice in here though, there's a nice breez---
Ew! Oh God, they
are paving today aren't they? Ugh that smells rancid!"
He can't help but giggle at her disgust, his own nose having grown tolerant of the smell by now. She looks over at him, rolling her eyes but a smile teasing at her lips. "You were just waiting for that, weren't you?" He continues snickering, and she growls in playful aggravation, reaching over to ruffle his hair.
"Ahh don't touch me! You'll contaminate me with all your glitter and weirdness!" he protests, holding back laughter as he tries to squirm away.
"Oh it's
glitter you're afraid of, is it?" she replies, voice low and eyes glimmering with mischief and shimmering eyeshadow. "But I think you'll grow to like it, it makes everything in this drab world shine, with all the brilliance our souls desire in their home... Here, let me just---" She grips one of his wrists firmly to keep him from getting away, and with her free hand fumbles in a pocket of her jeans a moment before pulling out a small clear container of glittering gel. "Now, hold still, just for a second---"
"
Nooo no no no!" He is shrieking with laughter and refusal now, struggling hard, but her grip is tight and her limbs far longer than his, though he is tall for his age. Laughing as well, she dips her brightly painted fingertips into the sparkles, and manages to smear some across his cheek.
"
Eeewwwww!" he cries out, finally wrenching himself free, slipping off the couch and writhing in overdramatic agony across the floor, rubbing at his face in feigned horror. "Oh no! It's spreading! The infection is spreading, it's going to eat my whole body! Nooo what have you done?!"
"I thought you were both too hot to move today?" chuckles an amused voice, its time-smoothed decorum in sharp contrast to the high-pitched laughter of her children.
Gasping for breath, laughter still lingering in their hearts and lungs, the two look over at their mother standing in the doorway, her eyes sparkling as brightly as the glitter spread across the two younger faces.
"We are, but I had to get away from---"
"I am, but he was just asking for---"
Mom laughs again, gesturing them to stop their overlapping explanations. "In case you haven't found them yet, there are popsicles in the freezer downstairs, I bought a box yesterda--- No running in the house!" she laughs, the reprimand far too late as the two bolt past her, skittering through the house, heading for the basement door, for just a moment outrunning the day's heat. Content to let her children be young while they may, she smiles softly and walks gently through the room, letting her eyes linger on the mixture of old and new which inevitably settles into a family's home. Heirlooms and Christmas gifts, furniture appropriated from the house's previous owners and modern appliances, elements of traditional good taste and the kids' latest fads. She sits on the couch, her movements still graceful, if a little weary. Leaning forward, she takes between her fingers the delicate lace lying on the coffee table, her eyes and skin drinking in the beautifully crafted complexity, its intricacies drawing in both sight and touch, gracing them with just a little bit of wonder. The faint smile on her lips changes slightly, tinged with bittersweet yearning, a mixture of pleasant memory and future hope.
"All the brilliance our souls desire in their home..." she murmurs quietly to herself, still fingering the lace, thinking of her children. So beautiful they are in themselves, yet they are nowhere near content with that - she has seen in their eyes the same longing that has haunted each mirror her life has carried her past. Always reaching for something more than the commonplace. Her daughter looks to the stars far beyond the earth, her son looks for the details others miss in the world around them. And what is it she is looking for? She gazes at the lace between her fingers, and the smile on her lips loses some of its sadness. "I look for ways to help them find it. If I never find it, maybe I can give them just enough of a nudge in the right direction to find it themselves. And then a part of me will have found it, too..."
She gets to her feet, heart calm and soul at ease, the heat no longer bothering her refreshed self. Picking up the glass and coaster from the windowsill, she bends down to straighten the lace coverlet, and walks gracefully from the room.
