We Are the Ants(5)

Charlie coughed “bullshit” under his breath; I replied with one finger.

“You’re not . . . sleepwalking . . . again, are you?”

“I was walking, Mom, but I was definitely awake.”

Charlie whipped a toast wedge that struck me below my eye. “Two points!”

“Did you just try to blind me with toast? What the hell is wrong with you?” I grabbed the toast off the floor to throw it away, but Charlie held out his hand and said, “Don’t waste it, bro.”

Mom lit another cigarette. “No one would blame me if I smothered you both in your sleep.” I think my mom might have been pretty once, but the years devoured her youth, beauty, and enthusiasm for anything with an alcohol content of less than 12 percent.

Nana handed me a paper bag stained with grease. “Don’t forget your lunch, Charlie.”

I peeked inside the bag. Nana had dumped two fried eggs, three strips of bacon, and hash browns at the bottom. Broken yolk oozed over everything like sunny pus. “I’m Henry, Nana.” As soon as she turned her back, I tossed the sack lunch into the garbage can.

“Do you need a ride to school, Henry?” Mom asked.

I glanced at the clock on the microwave. If I hurried, I’d have enough time to shower and walk to school. “Tempting. I’ve read that beginning your day by doing something absolutely terrifying is good for you, but I’m going to pass.”

“Smartass.”

“Could you drop me off at Zooey’s?” Charlie mopped up the last of my eggs with the projectile floor toast and stuffed it into his fat mouth.

“Don’t you have class this morning?” I asked, knowing full well Charlie had withdrawn from all his classes but still hadn’t told Mom.

“I can swing you by the community college on my way to work,” Mom said.

“Thanks. Great.” Charlie faked a smile with gritted teeth, but I knew he was dreaming up a hundred ways to cause me excruciating pain, most of which likely involved his fists and my face—my brother isn’t terribly creative, but he is consistent.

For the record: if the sluggers ever abduct Charlie, I’m certain he’ll earn the anal probe.

“Henry, I need you home right after school today.”

“Why?” I stopped my excruciatingly slow exit from the kitchen even though I needed to get out of there and take a shower if I didn’t want to be late.

“I’m working a double at the restaurant, so you’ll have to look after Mother tonight.”

Charlie jeered at me behind Mom’s back, and I wanted to punch that smug look off his face. “What if I have plans?” I didn’t have plans, but the dismal state of my social life was none of her business.

Mom sucked on her cigarette; the cherry flared. “Just be home after school, all right? Can you do one f*cking thing I ask without arguing?”

“Watch your mouth, young lady,” Nana said from the stove, “or you can go straight to your room without supper.”

“Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”

? ? ?

On the day I was born, photons from the star Gliese 832 began their journey toward Earth. I was little more than a squalling, wrinkled, shit-spewing monster when that light began its sixteen-year journey through the empty void of space to reach the empty void of Calypso, Florida, where I’ve spent my entire, empty void of a life. From Gliese 832’s point of view, I am still a wrinkled, shit-spewing monster, only recently born. The farther we are from one another, the further we live in each other’s pasts.

Five years in my past, my father used to take me and Charlie deep-sea fishing on the weekends. He’d wake us up hours before sunrise and treat us to breakfast at a greasy diner called Spooners. I’d stuff myself full of grits and cheesy eggs. Sometimes I’d really indulge and order a stack of chocolate--chip pancakes. After breakfast we’d head to the docks, where Dad’s friend Dwight kept his boat, and we’d aim for carefree waters.

I always sat at the bow, dangling my feet over the side, letting the water tickle my toes as we sped through the intracoastal toward the deep sea. I loved how the sun and salt spray perfused my skin, filling me with the memory of light. God surely meant for humans to live like that. He hadn’t intended for us to wither into desiccated husks in front of brightly lit screens that leeched away our summer days one meme at a time.

The fishing trips began well enough. We’d swap dirty jokes that Mom would have killed us for hearing or telling; Dwight would find us a suitable place to drift; Dad would bait my hook, patiently explaining what he was doing as he worked the squid or bait fish onto the barbed end; and we’d cast our lines and wait for the fish to bite. Not even Charlie’s unending nut punches and nipple twists ruined the mood. Those times were as perfect as any I ever had, but the good times never lasted.

My doctor once explained that it was an inner-ear problem. Something to do with balance and equilibrium affecting my spatial orientation. Honestly, I don’t understand how my ears affected my stomach, but I took his word for it. There I was, laughing and smiling and enjoying the day—fishing pole gripped in my hands, bare feet propped on the railing—-when the nausea would strike. The boat tilted, the deck melted under my feet and sloped toward the water. My skin burned, and my mouth watered. I’d try to breathe normally, but I could never get enough oxygen.