As soon as the prayer is over, crazed food passing commences. Phil sits on my right. He doesn’t say much more to me than, “Can you pass me the gravy?” He’s got his creamy-skinned, innocent-eyed Mormon girlfriend, Krystal, sitting across the table from him. Massive footsie going on there. I almost got caught in it. Guess they have hormones, too.
Hormones or not, Phil manages to polish off three plates of turkey and mashed potatoes.
Leesie’s mom asks Gram question after question about this flower or that bush. Gram loves it. I can’t remember seeing her so animated.
At the end of the meal, Stephie puts a black olive on the end of each finger and bangs them together.
“Stephanie Marie Hunt you stop that this instant.” Her mom frowns and glares. Stephie jams the olives all in her mouth. Chews fast. Gets giggly with all of us watching her. Loses it in a fountain of tiny bits of black olives.
Krystal is next to her. Gets the worst of it. She squeals first, but then laughs, and hugs the little brat. “Come on, Stephalina, let’s go get cleaned up.”
Phil goes after them.
Stephie comes back. Phil and his woman don’t.
Leesie’s mom’s eyes drill Leesie’s dad this time.
He shakes his head. “Give them a minute. Don’t you remember being young and in love?”
She scowls at him. “Yes, dear. With you. That’s why I’m concerned.”
He blushes full on. Her mom stands up. “Come on, Leesie. Help me with the pies.” They both grab food to be put away and leave. Gram gets up, picks up a giant bowl of Jell-O, and follows them. She can’t stay out of the kitchen long. Stephie looks at her dad and me and grabs the empty olive dish. “I’ll help, too.”
Leesie’s dad leans back and shakes his head. “Families.”
Freak, I wish I had one. I look down at my empty plate, stand to clear it.
“Leave that.” Leesie’s dad motions for me to sit back down. “Well, son, I’ve never seen Leesie so happy.”
“She’s glad to be home, sir.”
“Thank you for bringing her.”
“It was nothing.”
“No, it wasn’t. It means a lot to her and to us.”
“I’d do almost anything for her—you know that.”
“Almost?” His eyebrows draw together. “What wouldn’t you do for her?”
Now my face gets hot. I’m probably redder than the cherry pie I watched Leesie make this morning. “I love her. And she loves me. I tried to let her go, but—I’ll look after her. I promise. I’ll never disrespect her.” Our eyes meet. He knows exactly what I mean. “What would you think if we—if I asked her—”
His face clouds up. “You’ve got a long way to go, son, before you can even discuss that. Around here, ‘almost’ isn’t good enough. When do you head back to Thailand?”
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #62, EVENING TRYST
Kim arrives with Mark
in orbit around her.
Driving down together.
A unit again.
Happy to join us on a sunset walk.
Phil and Krystal lead us past the barn
with its huddle of pig bodies arrayed
in a perfect circle of white and black,
and up the rutted gravel road,
their interlocked hands swing,
betraying unadulterated joy
that draws your eyes
and makes you sad to look away.
Michael and Mark saunter next
hands in pockets, kicking the gravel,
nothing to say to each other.
Kim and I walk behind—savor the view.
She starts in on how great
make up sex is, but drops it,
gears her tone to my ears alone.
“You forgave Michael last year,
and cheating is a way bigger deal to you
than it is to me.” Her face solemnizes.
“He pledged no more room-mates. I
swore off frat parties and co-ed showers—
We spent the break hunting the net
for an apartment that needs two.
The only bed I want to be in is his.”
I nod, and she laughs at me.
But I can’t imagine
sharing my intimate self
with anyone but Michael.
Him? I have to struggle
to keep myself from imagining
that every time I inhale.
I’m perfecting the art of continual
repentance. Watching
his backside is to be avoided.
We catch up—claim our men.
I breathe in the sweet pine perfume
laced with autumn decay and stinky pigs,
squeeze Michael’s arm.
“Turn right here.” Phil waves us
up the steep hill. “It’s just below the peak.”
In the golden glow of the dying sun,
he leads us into a tangle of overgrown
lilac bushes, vines, naked trees—branches
twisted into thickets.
We tread on a bed of their degenerating
leaves. Phil pulls Krystal close and kisses
her nose tip. “This is the coolest
place on the farm.”
Michael’s eyes
burn through my cheekbones.
“What is this place?”
I point to a rough-hewn stone slab
arched, mossy and black-weathered,
but still standing sentinel.
I squat to read faint letters:
“Planted on earth to bloom in heaven.”
March 6, 1897 – March 10, 1897
An awe of respect and quiet honoring past pain
settles around us in the gathering gloom.
“You should see this in spring.” I gaze at him.
“Green reborn. Teaming with paper white
daffodils, a carpet of thousands,
recreated every year to celebrate
these souls who’ve moved on.”
Phil hugs Krystal.
“I’m getting buried here.”
Michael’s arm drops from my shoulders.
The big sister in me calls to Phil,
“You can’t—it’s old, wrecked, closed.”
Phil laughs. “I’ve got what—
eighty years to change that.”
He turns to Krystal. “What do
you say, angel. Want to be buried
here with me?” She turns as pink
as the sunset that glows in the distance.
“Right on the farm? That would be cool.”
Phil takes both her hands, walks backward,
guiding her like a princess, deeper
into the tangled resting place.
Kim and Mark fade away
on their own journey.
“Your brother has rotten taste
in make out places.” Michael’s voice
is rough-edged with pain
that is more present than I realized.
I touch the chiseled letters wrought with grief,
chip a flake of lichen off the cold rock.
I grasp Michael’s hand and pull him down beside me,
lean my head on his shoulder, inhale the decay
in this silently dying place.
“I love it here. It’s so close.”
“To death?”
“No—to life. The rest of our lives.”
My fingers stop on “heaven.”
“This mom held that baby again, Michael.
And your mom will hold you.
I bet she’s watching right now.
Can you feel her?
Your dad?”
Michael shakes his head. “They
are with me every dive.” His breath
warms my temple. “Thanks to you.”
We stand and hold each other.
His hand searches through my hair.
“It’s not enough, Leese.
I need you with me
every dive,
every day,
every night.”
His eyes leave mine,
encompass the graveyard.
“We don’t belong here.”
He buries me in a kiss
that envelops my eternity.
I pledge to God, angels, and the dying
leaves under my feet to capture
Michael’s forever
like he’s enslaved mine.
PLEASE
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10
D
IVE
B
UDDY
: Leesie
D
ATE
: 12/06
D
IVE
#:—
L
OCATION
: Provo
D
IVE
S
ITE
: Leesie’s dorm
W
EATHER
C
ONDITION
: cold and clear
W
ATER
C
ONDITION
: frozen
D
EPTH
: way over my head
V
ISIBILITY
: murky
W
ATER
T
EMP
.: icy
B
OTTOM
T
IME
: no clue
C
OMMENTS
:
Back in Utah. This week went too fast. It’s all going too fast. When I first got here, I worried about being bored to death. Leesie’s a study queen. But I started working on my Asian fish ID while she studies. I can teach it now. Claude will be impressed.
If I’m quiet and don’t bug her and quiz her whenever she orders me to, I can hang out with her every minute she’s not in class. All day every day until we have to say goodnight, and I have to go back to my too nice hotel room. She’s got a crapload of work all the time. Hardly takes a minute off. I bring her food so she doesn’t slip between the cracks in the ugly linoleum floor in their dorm apartment. Not the most exciting thing in the world to sit around staring at pictures ofAsian fish while she works—but I’m with her. That’s all that really matters.