Sunday

I pressed my fingers tight around the cross pendant I kept hidden at the end of a stainless steel chain, like a recluse underneath layers of clothing. Amy Jackson, my publicist, had called me early that morning. She asked me to come into the office at lunchtime, and she wasn’t able to keep the piss out of her voice, which meant I was surely in for a verbal lashing or two. Normally, I’d have no reservations toward throwing on the cleanest looking T-shirt I could fish off my floor and a pair of denims I hadn’t washed in a horrifyingly long time, but the combination of Houston’s ninety degree springtime and a thorough sense of anxiety had me sweating puddles into the fabric before I had finished tying my shoelaces. I added a sports coat to the mix, trying to emulate professionalism and hide the everglades forming around my armpits. 

Amy’s office was on the fortieth floor of a charcoal skyscraper downtown. The decor was sleek, that kind of modern primitive look where they throw a petrified branch of driftwood on top of a concrete slab and expect you to salivate. Unfortunately, I had already exhausted my body’s water reserve with my heavy perspiration, so I merely sat on the couch, one leg folded over the other, and tried not to pray. It’d been too long since I conversed with the man upstairs. I figured he’d rather not be burdened with trying to devise my salvation. 

Amy’s assistant, Nemo, waved a hand back and forth, letting me know it was showtime. I stood, cleared my throat, and began walking over towards her. She rose a few inches off of her chair, an empty gesture we both understood, and I gave her the complementary, “Sit back down, don’t worry about it,” nonsense. She smiled, and reopened her Facebook page. 

“We need to talk about direction, Grayson,” Amy said. She had her arms crossed, a cold yet pensive stance by her floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out across the thick stand of corporate towers. 

“Direction?” I asked, shifting my legs open and shut like a toddler.

“That’s right,” she said.

Amy tried to contain her frustration, but she was a fiery lady. It used to turn me on back in the early days, when she’d just taken me in as a client. Her anger was raw. Once you turned that faucet, unyielding tides came forth. I came to realize, however, that my perversion was a nothing but a veil, concealing the pathetic nature of our dynamic. If she wanted me to get my pages out on time, she’d have to scold me like a grade school teacher. 

“If I’m going to keep you as a client, you need to move on from these erotic vignettes. I know you’re trying to find your voice, but I have a reputation to maintain. I can’t be putting my time towards landing you contemporary zines,” Amy said. She had turned to face me. 

“There’s nothing wrong with a little diversification in your portfolio,” I said. I was scratching the back of my head furiously, an old habit I developed when being overpowered by women. 

Amy shook her head. She sat against the edge of her desk, a recycled chunk taken out of a decommissioned airstream trailer, repurposed tastefully as the centerpiece in her office. 

“The zines are edgy, you know? They’re nuanced,” I pleaded. 

“They’re shitty, Grayson,” she said with a sigh. “You need to give me a real story. Something meaningful. Something with insight.” 

I studied the carpet underneath my feet. The threads were becoming frayed where each of Amy’s clients rested their shoes. My thoughts turned over slowly, uninspired. 

“I want to get you in the New Yorker, or at least some publication people know about outside of the coffee shops in Montrose. But, you need to write something real. I’ve seen that cross peaking out from your collar before. What’s that about?” 

I looked down at my chest, somewhat embarrassed that she’d uncovered my pewter stowaway. I pressed the cross pendant between my fingers. “Just something from home,” I said, my words uneasy.

“Which sect?” she asked, leaning forwards with her fingers interwoven.

“Baptist,” I said, running my thumb along the trimmed surface and remembering how it used to feel under the warmth of the merciless afternoon sun.

“I want to read that story. I mean, you don’t exactly scream upbringing of the faith,” she said. She was nodding her head, a new light shined on me. “I don’t want the semi-pornographic shit you’ve been churning out. Years ago, I picked up a client because I thought he was edgy. I did try to bring some nuance into the fold. Didn’t take me long to figure out that he was shooting his advances into his arm, and I’ve had a bad taste for it since then. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a big step up from that guy.” 

“Thanks,” I mumbled. 

“But, I need you to get serious about this, otherwise I’m gonna have to let you go,” Amy spoke with stern force, but she knew how to let compassion bleed through it. 

That night, in my cramped apartment, I opened up a fifth of Johnnie Walker and let it sear the back of my throat. It was going to take some chemical influence to face the past, to bring light to the hidden prairie once more. 

Through the kitchen window, a sharp fragment of light collided with my left eye, dragging my attention away from the table settings in my grasp, towards the end of the driveway about a half mile from our front porch, where a rusty caravan of dilapidated vehicles dragged our extended family through the wooden gate my father had left open early that morning. It was a dark, metallic serpent, kicking up large plumes of dust into the sunshine as it slithered across the farm, desperately holding onto its loose innards to avoid leaving a trail of scrap metal and motor oil in its wake. I fidgeted with the cutlery I had bundled up alongside cloth napkins and placemats, hoping to suddenly develop telekinetic abilities and bring the cars to a halt at a safe distance from our house. 

“Grayson. Get that table set, honey. They’re here,” my mother said, wiping her hands across the frayed surface of her apron. Mama’s Kitchen, it said. She had received it as compensation for hosting the youth chili cook-off at church a couple years before. The old thing was destined to fall apart soon, but that seemed to be a trait assignable to every tangible possession my family owned. Even the bible I had, tucked in my bedside drawer, was starting to lose its text like decaying parchment tends to do, though the words were printed well enough in my head to render the physical copy superfluous. 

The convoy slowed to a full stop, engines still crackling as they faced the porch. My parents and I began moving towards the door to welcome the cast of clowns inside. With each step forwards, I felt like I was trekking deeper into a thick patch of mud. The carpet seemed to latch on to the soles of my thrifted Converse sneakers, prolonging the dreadful voyage. BANG! A sound like a constipated twelve gauge fired off from outside, rattling the front windows and sending my mother into a panicked crouch. 

“What in God’s name was that?” my father grumbled. His pace increased through the creaky screen door. As soon as he set foot on the porch, the car doors flung open, and out slumped a band of country folk wearing such obnoxiously bright clothing that we should have mailed protective eye wear to any surrounding residents suffering from epilepsy. 

“Pierce my boy! How the hell are ya!” my grandfather shouted up towards the house. 

“I’ll be doing fine once I’m sure you didn’t just blow a hole through my house,” my father replied. 

“They call that the Weaver family greeting!” The old man let out a hoarse cackle that could have easily sent a lung hurtling up into the sky. 

“Hang on a second. Dad. Why are you driving?” my father asked, holding up a leathery palm. 

“Well, I can’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t be.” Grandpa gazed around into nothingness as if he was trying to crowdsource a response from the other relatives. 

“You’re blind, for starters,” my father said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Oh give me a break. I adapted to the situation.”

From behind the second vehicle, Uncle Jeff stepped into view, carrying his infamous collection case with the caution of a parent cradling their newborn child. His wife, Auntie Claire, followed behind him. She was steering both of their suitcases, and experiencing a fair amount of difficulty trying to force the small plastic wheels over the rolling mounds of dirt in our driveway. 

“Adapted to the situation...” my father repeated. 

Uncle Jeff hopped up onto the porch and gave my father’s hand a jarring shake. “You gotta let him explain this. I swear to the good lord above, it’s the best line he’s spit out in years,” he said with a wonky grin slapped across his face. 

“Alright then. Let’s hear it Dad.” My father’s words floated out atop a sigh. 

“I been developin’ sonar vision. Like what the bats got. Right now, I can hear how far away y’all are standing. ‘Bout twelve feet, give or take a few inches, cuz I am blind goddammit.” Grandpa’s shoulders tilted backwards. He lifted his head up to bask in the pride of being completely at one with his remaining senses. He was standing no more than three feet from the porch. 

Uncle Jeff strained to suppress his laughter, and my father let a smile begin to spread towards either cheek. It was a rare sight. The man was extremely utilitarian about his pearly whites, only using them to chew food or clasp loose pieces of steel wire when his hands were full. Even the hint of a grin was something like a religious experience for me. 

“I’ll tell you what. I can feel the vibrations too. From the ground. Like a snake ‘er a squirrel with a real low stance. A squirrel with Scoliosis, perhaps,” Grandpa boasted. 

There was only so much pressure that could build up inside Uncle Jeff before he blew a gasket, and the steam was extra dense when it came to Grandpa’s self-righteous delusions. The laughter started out as a deep thunder and quickly ascended to a piercing howl. My mother couldn’t help herself. She joined the chorus, and before I knew it, so too had Auntie Claire. Even my father released a few chuckles. I looked back and forth between the cluster of adults laughing on the porch and my grandfather, who was standing his ground, hands on hips. His eyes were milky from the blindness, and they shot out wildly in opposite directions, but regardless I could see the glimmer of defiance shining from their surface. He pursed his lips, too stubborn to crumble under the ridicule. 

“I want iced tea.” The sweet voice of a young girl piped in seemingly from nowhere. It was my cousin Mindy, shuffling her cowgirl boots in the dirt as she anxiously peered around the side of Uncle Jeff’s car. 

“Jesus Christ! Don’t you sneak up on me like that young lady!” Grandpa shouted. He whirled around with his hands out, clawing at the space around him, although he was aiming far too high to even graze the hair on Mindy’s head. 

“Just a fluke in the sonar, I guess,” my father said. 

“The kids man. Always forget about the kids,” Uncle Jeff said. He carefully laid his collection case on the porch and waltzed over to the corner I was crammed into. The neon fabric of his Hawaiian shirt rippled in the breeze. “Hey there frog. Good to see ya.” 

He stuck his hand out for a shake. I braced every bone on the right side of my body for the impending tremors. Hesitantly, my hand ventured forwards into his until he started the violent motion. It was enough to give a child my size a concussion. 

As the afternoon heat began to descend upon us, we all fled inside from the porch. Grandpa immediately dropped himself down on the couch, while my mother ran to the kitchen to fetch a pitcher of iced tea, and my father got distracted by a rattling sound coming from one of the electric fans. If something was broken in the house, no matter how insubstantially, you could guarantee that our next meal would be postponed until the issue was resolved. Even with his obsessive work ethic, the house was still constantly falling apart. 

“Laura, you still got the kit upstairs?” Uncle Jeff asked my mother. 

“Yep. Shine’s in the guest room. Right where you left it,” she said, carrying glasses of sweet tea on a silver tray. 

“Hallelujah. Gotta give the boys a quick polish,” he said, before bolting up the stairs with his collection case. 

Auntie Claire rolled her eyes.

“Any new additions?” my mother asked.

“Hell no,” Auntie Claire responded, “I told him if he buys one more of those stupid things, me and Mindy are gonna go stay at my mom’s house.”

My mother giggled and handed Auntie Claire a glass. Suddenly, I felt the sharp pinch of curiosity tugging at my skull. The women were occupied with conversation, while Mindy clung to Auntie’s leg like a monkey to a tree. My father was busy fiddling with the fan’s metal blades, and it was likely Grandpa had already forgotten where he was. I creeped my way out of the living room and climbed up to the second floor. The guest room door was slightly ajar, just enough for me to peer through with one eye while I held my palm over the other. Inside, I watched Uncle Jeff release the latches on his collection case. 

He gently caressed the leather exterior before opening it up and taking a deep breath. There were about thirty porcelain figurines of frogs organized atop a layer of velvet. Each one was dressed in a different outfit, and some of them were positioned to mimic recreational activities, like the one in the back right corner who stood with a golf club perched on his shoulder, squinting out from underneath his plaid cap as if he’d just launched a drive. 

I had never peaked behind the curtain before, with regards to Uncle Jeff and his collection. On Sundays like this in the past, when we rallied up the closest branches of the family tree, he would sometimes open up the case in the living room, proudly presenting his various frogs while Mindy and I laughed at their cartoonish depiction of humanity. He’d had the things for as far back as I could remember. In our eyes, that leather case was simply an extension of Uncle Jeff, a tangible fragment of his persona. We assumed he was just a collector by nature, and that for some reason the frogs had peaked his interest. 

“Fellas. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” Uncle Jeff said to the frogs. He unscrewed the lid from the bottle of polish and grabbed a rag from a nearby shelf. I started backing away from the cracked door slowly, easing my weight from foot to foot so as not to alert him to voyeuristic presence. At my core, I felt guilt tangling itself into my very being. Our pastor always said that to spy on a man was to be dishonest, to dishonor your neighbor. He claimed it was an offense of the same caliber as peeping on a naked lady. I regretted coming upstairs. 

After Uncle Jeff had returned from his sensual maintenance of the frogs, and my father had stopped the rattling sound from the fan, we gathered at our long wooden table for lunch. Everybody joined hands. It was a Weaver family Sunday, so we did our prayers from home. My father took the responsibility of saying grace. 

“Dear Heavenly Father, we sit together, on this beautiful afternoon, filled with humility and gratitude,” he began. When my father spoke his prayers, I felt a current of energy coming from within him. He called it the, “Lord’s Light,” saying that it keeps any man warm for all of eternity. I admired my father, above all else, for his ability to wield that current. It was empowering just to sit near him when he did it, and made me feel proud to be a Weaver, at least in my father’s subset. Each night before bed, I would read my bible, and try to memorize every last detail so that I too could learn to move the current. 

Years later, I was clipping one of the cattle fences when I heard the hum of tires coursing down the driveway. The metal serpent had made its way onto our property once again, this time with more metallic screeching than before. It shocked me that those cars hadn’t self destructed in some desperate attempt to curtail their seemingly eternal despair. I headed towards the house, hoping God would prevent Grandpa from running me over along the way. This time around felt different. I had grown out of the nervous shell of a boy and started to resemble a man, stoic like my father. Setting the table was a distant dream, one that I often longed for when the sun was beating down on me. 

The two vehicles stopped in front of our porch, and their engines sputtered furiously. The doors flew open. I was astonished by the sight of Mindy stepping out from the driver’s side of Grandpa’s car. She looked much older than me now, with long brown hair cascading down her shoulders and beautiful green eyes carrying daylight like two emerald lanterns. Part of me felt envious. She had clearly received the best of our family’s genetic inheritance, avoiding the round, cartoonish nose and the overly prominent brow ridge that served as two major identifiers of the Weavers. It didn’t make sense how someone so stunning could be the product of the closest remaining descendants of cavemen. 

Uncle Jeff stepped out of the rear vehicle. “What’s going on, frog?” he asked.

This time I put my hand out first, and I harnessed his earthquake of a greeting with the strength I had developed through long bouts of manual labor. “Just getting by,” I said.

“Greyson, where’s your folks at?” Auntie Claire inquired as she pulled two suitcases from the trunk. I noticed grey streaks running through her hair. 

“Think they’re inside. Probably setting up for y’all.” 

Mindy shook Grandpa from his slumber gently. He snorted from the back of his throat and the mad eyes snapped open. If the guy could see, he’d essentially have built-in side mirrors with the way his clouded pupils were cocked outwards. 

“Not the horseradish!” he exclaimed wildly.

Mindy giggled, and patted him on the shoulder. “We’re here Grandpa,” she said.

I led the troop of relatives up onto the porch and in through the screen door. There were a couple of holes that had opened in the mesh over time, allowing wind to dance inside the house. Uncle Jeff set his collection case down behind the sofa while the greetings started flying around the room. I studied it for a moment, wondering if he still had all the same frogs living inside as before. The leather shell of the case had grown weary of keeping up appearances. There were long abrasions cutting across its surface like bolts of lightning. I had a feeling the frogs were still in perfect condition though, after my secret observation of Uncle Jeff’s meticulous upkeep. He caught me staring at the case and raised his eyebrows. 

“I’d take them out to show you, but it was a pretty long drive. They need to get some rest,” he said. 

“Makes sense. Frogs don’t normally travel by car.” I said. 

He gave me a friendly nudge on the arm and proceeded towards my parents, who were owed some form of acknowledgement from him. From the inside of my boots, I could feel the initial searing of blisters in their conception phases. I wanted badly to take them off, but my mother would scold me hard for that, and I was afraid I had holes in my socks. I didn’t want to be pacing around the house with my toes sticking out like a bum. As I inspected the shoes and fantasized about removing them, a pair of feet with purple toenails in flip flops stepped into my gaze. Mindy was already bored with the grownups, and had migrated to the only other young person within miles. I scratched the back of my head anxiously, not sure of what to say. A late night phone call from Auntie Claire to my mother had revealed that Mindy was spending more and more time in the city. Her lifestyle was drifting away from the farm town, from church, allegedly from sobriety as well. Auntie had discovered a small bag of cocaine in her purse the day before she rang our landline. 

“Do you smoke pot?” she asked, suddenly. 

“Uh... beg your pardon?” The question took me completely off guard, which was becoming a trend with this new Mindy. 

“Pot. Grass. Marijuana? Do you smoke it?” 

“No. I don’t,” I said. I was still itching my head, almost feverishly now. Evasion was the only option for me if I didn’t want to break the skin back there. 

“Come with me,” she said. Mindy grabbed the hand that wasn’t occupied trying to breach my skull, and started walking towards the front door. She was leading me like a dog, but I felt too flustered to find it emasculating. 

“We’re gonna go on a walk,” she sang out to our parents. 

“What do you mean a walk?” Auntie Claire asked, with one eyebrow raised. Clearly going for a walk was an excuse that had received its fair share of field deployment in their household. 

“I, uh, was gonna show her the cattle fence I’ve been rewiring,” I said, without even processing the words. In the sixteen years I had been alive, that was the third time I had ever lied to my parents. They didn’t give it a second thought.  

Together, we strolled off the porch and began our voyage across the vast fields that surrounded the house. A calm summer breeze rolled through the grass, sending green ripples ahead of us. We continued onwards underneath the pastel sky, full of luscious clouds set ablaze by the sun in descent. When we came alongside a small stand of trees, Mindy stopped on her heels. 

“This’ll do,” she said. 

“For what, exactly?” I asked. I had never laid eyes on pot before, and up until an embarrassingly recent time, I believed it was injected into the bloodstream with a syringe. My mother and father, as well as our church, had sheltered me from the harsher facets of reality that existed beyond the hidden prairie I called home. 

Mindy pulled a joint out of her purse. “Hold this,” she said. 

I held it between the edges of my pointer finger and thumb, as if at any moment the thing might become sentient and lunge at me. A cool veil of shade hung over our shoulders, cast down from the slender trees behind us. It was a small cluster, isolated in the immense sea of tall grass surrounding them. Their bark was sun-bleached to the point of resembling bone more than wood. With my free hand, I rubbed the coarse surface of one the trunks. 

Mindy rummaged around in the bottom of her bag, and fished out a lighter. “Now we’re in business,” she said.

“Hooray,” I whimpered.

The first two hits had me coughing so hard that I had to bend over. A horrible retching echoed from the depths of my esophagus, churning up a stream of drool that swung down into the grass. 

“Are you okay?” Mindy asked.

“Yeah, yep. Totally cool.” I responded, still catching my breath.

She laughed at me and continued to burn through the joint. I was only able to take two more hits before throwing in the towel. She finished it off with ease. “They say it enhances your spirituality,” Mindy said.

“What does?” I asked, slanting my eyebrows. 

“The weed,” she responded, “it’s a holy plant, you know? If God’s real, he put it here for a reason.” 

We both looked out across the great expanse of thick grass. The farm was entirely flatland, set far apart from the region where the hills began to slope upwards. Giant squares of pasture were divided by wire fences, many of which I had put up myself. On a square far across the property, a small herd of cattle grazed the land. We watched them, studying their gentle disposition, lives much simpler than our own. 

“I guess that means you could smoke this stuff to get closer to him,” I said. 

“Yeah, probably. To be honest, though, I’m not too sure where I stand with the whole God thing,” she said, shuffling her sandals in the grass like she used to with her cowgirl boots. 

“Heard you’re becoming a city dweller. What’re you, a buddhist now or something?” I asked. We both laughed, sharing a moment of warmth. I didn’t want her to think I would chastise the idea of a different life, or a different faith, like Auntie Claire had. 

“I have no idea what I am, but I know I don’t belong here man. This just doesn’t do it for me. The endless farmland, the cows, the shit... the fucking church. It can be too much. I don’t know,” she said. She was rubbing her arm, unsure of how to express her feelings to an audience free of reprimand. 

“I understand,” I said, with an empathetic gaze. “Things have changed for me too. Maybe it’s just how growing up works, but church doesn’t feel the same. It’s like I’m being forced into it, but it didn’t used to feel like that.” 

Mindy nodded her head. We had never established a connection this honest before. Her emerald eyes remained fixated on mine, less lonely now. “I know dude,” she said, groaning at the back of her throat, “my mom has to drag me to congregation. That’s wild though, you used to be a pure-bred bible bleeder.”  

“I still really like the bible, but in a different way. I don’t read it to learn anymore. I don’t care about the second coming of Jesus and all that stuff, I just really like the story. I think the whole idea of oral tradition is more powerful than the church, if that makes sense. Like, that’s what drew me in as a kid too. The way my dad would speak the so-called word of God. That was the closest thing to divinity I’ve ever known,” I said. Mindy looked at me strangely. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go off,” I added, feeling slightly embarrassed. 

“No. Don’t say sorry. That was fuckin’ deep,” she said, patting me on the shoulder. 

The sun was beginning to reach the tip of the horizon, far ahead of us. Everything was bathed in blood orange light. We set course back towards the house. Mindy twirled around while we walked. She reminded me of a girl from the Manson family, the way she danced, sparkling in the final vestiges of daylight. 

“Do you feel anything yet?” she asked. 

“I’m not sure. My face feels kinda funny, and like... is it just me or does this grass look really crazy right now?” I said. There was an indescribable sensation radiating from my tongue that made the act of speaking feel euphoric. I couldn’t stop watching the gentle tide pools of tall grass swirling around in wind-drawn patterns.

“Oh yeah, dude. You’re coming up,” she said, letting out one of her soft, Mindy giggles. 

As soon as we stepped foot in the house, all eyes were on us. My skin began to sizzle under the great beams of scrutiny shooting out of our parent’s heads. I made the mistake of averting my eye contact directly into Grandpa’s ghostly saucers, which only made me feel immeasurably more uncomfortable. I wondered what he was seeing in his head. Probably just darkness. What a depressing way to live. I had never considered what it must be like to deal with constant darkness, even in direct sunlight. The memory of my family laughing at Grandpa on the porch came to me suddenly, and I felt deeply saddened by the recollection. Poor old guy. 

“Man. I am sweating like nobody’s business right now,” Mindy said. The adults were still watching us closely. 

“You put her to work out there?” Uncle Jeff asked.

I just stared at him, unsure of how to respond.

“I don’t know how you stay out there all day,” Mindy interjected.

“Because he’s a Weaver,” Auntie Claire responded. Her words were cold, dripping with poison.

“Ok. I need to take a shower before dinner,” she said, ignoring her mom’s attitude. 

“Make it quick. There’s only one bathroom, so you better not do your regular spa routine in there.” Auntie Claire was clearly in the mood to instigate.

My mother quickly stepped in to alleviate some of the tension. “No don’t worry about it, I’ve been so caught up talking to y’all I forgot to put the roast in,” she said.

Mindy sauntered off the battlefield, closing the bathroom door behind her. An uncomfortable silence hung over the room like a damp cloak. I kept my eyes glued to the floor because I felt incapable of looking directly at my parents. 

“Why don’t we head upstairs and get unpacked?” Uncle Jeff split the silence carefully. 

My mind wandered off for a while, and when I came to, I was sitting on the couch next to Grandpa. Mom was preparing dinner to our right, her attention fully sealed on the task at hand. I looked at the old man as he remained motionless, his gaze seemingly fixated on something thousands of miles away. 

“Hey Grandpa?” I spoke softly to him.

“Yes?” He turned his head towards me.

“How did you go blind?” I asked, nervous about prodding at a sensitive subject.

He didn’t respond at first. I assumed the question was insensitive. Probably the pot making me say stupid things.

“Went down to Virginia many years ago. Those boys sure know how to handle tobacco, and I was interested in getting a little piece of the business for myself. First night I’m down there, some of the ranch hands bust out a jar of the strongest, purest, meanest hooch I ever came across. They said give it a try. I said alrighty. Ain’t in my nature to turn down a drink. So I grabbed hold of the jar, took a long pull of the stuff, and half an hour later I can’t see a damn thing!” Grandpa chuckled as if it was a fond memory. 

“What?” I asked. That couldn’t possibly be the real story. 

“Oh yeah. Thought it was just a temporary thang, go away the next day-like. But nope. Kept the lights off full time for me.” he said, rubbing his hand on his kneecap. 

“That’s horrible Grandpa. I’m, uh, sorry,” I said, unsure of how to process the information. 

“No need son. No need. Man’s gotta roll the dice sometimes, and sometimes those dice ain’t friendly.” 

I sat on the couch for a couple of minutes, trying to wrap my head around how idiotic the story was, and how idiotic it was for me to ask. I would have rather been ignorant to that particular truth. It just seemed like a total waste. Grandpa had spent the better part of forty years without sight, and it was all caused by an overconfident sip of moonshine. 

I stood up from the couch and began to walk towards the bathroom. A cold splash of water to the face seemed like the right idea at that point. My mother was still grinding away in the kitchen, oblivious to my passage. As I turned the doorknob in my hand, I realized entirely too late that Mindy was still on the other side. I don’t know if it was the pot or Grandpa’s preposterous origin story swirling around in my mind, but before I could determine anything, I was standing in the bathroom staring at Mindy’s naked body. Beads of moisture dotted her breasts, illuminated by the overhead light. We were both paralyzed, speechless. I felt the crotch of my jeans tighten, revealing a throbbing erection straight from the pit of my nightmares. Without a single word, no apology or attempt at an explanation, I backed out of the room and closed the door. The genuine connection Mindy and I had formed on our brief herbal expedition had fallen to pieces, just like that. 

My ears were ringing. The eggshell walls of our formerly comforting home were closing in on me. I fled up the stairs, hoping that I could lock the door to my room and wait until our relatives had left the premises. Before I made it to the safe space of my own personal quarters, I noticed a very peculiar soundscape bouncing throughout the second story. It was a disorienting mixture of wooden creaks, low barbaric groans, and a noise like air running through a hose in short bursts. Maybe I was having a heart attack. It was because of the dope. Just like Grandpa, I tried it once and my life was ruined, not only with regards to my health but also the fact that I would now be delivered promptly to the clutches of Satan once this cardiac episode took me out. I was about to die, immediately after discovering I was a pervert. 

My knees began to wobble, causing me to flop against the wall for support. As I pressed into the wall, the strange noises got louder. I slid myself forwards like a drunken pile of jello. The noises continued to amplify with each wobbly step I took. It was coming from the guest bedroom. 

With no thought, or warning whatsoever, I flung the door open and delved into the next layer of my despair. Uncle Jeff was perched on top of Auntie Claire. They were both naked, dripping with sweat. Along all sides of the room, atop the shelves, the desk, the nightstand, the frog figurines were arranged like an arena audience. Each pair of porcelain eyes was pointed directly towards my aunt and uncle, intently watching their sexual rendezvous. 

“What the fuck!” I shouted. I felt like a soldier storming the beaches of Normandy. I was convinced I had just discovered the only way to experience shell shock outside of an active combat zone. 

As my profane exclamation rang out, Uncle Jeff whipped his head around. We locked eyes. I thought maybe I had caused him to have a seizure, but quickly realized with immense terror that this was no seizure. Uncle Jeff had just reached climax, at the exact second in which he locked eyes with me. It was an instant repeat of the bathroom incident. Our eyes remained fixated upon one another, our mouths hanging open in pure anguish. Once again, I slowly backed out of the room and closed the door. 

That night at the dinner table, there was nothing but silence. The tension was thicker than a slab of granite, unyielding to the influence of small talk. Nobody could charm their way out of this hole we had plummeted into. My parents had no concept of the disaster that had just occurred. They looked at each other in confusion, and then at me. 

“We can’t eat till we’ve said a prayer,” my mother said. 

To my right sat Mindy, and to my left Uncle Jeff. I lowered my head in shame, and extended my hands outwards to either side. Two cold palms folded into mine hesitantly. If God picked up the phone that night and opened his ears to the debauchery we had sizzling inside our brains, I hope he hung up right away. 

After my first year of college, I came back to spend a few days on the farm. I felt I owed a visit to my parents, to my father especially, after Grandpa had died. I arrived at the front gate a few hours after the sun had set. The vast fields of grass were purple under the glow of moonlight, and a soft breeze danced about, pushing my hair back and forth. Two semesters of neglect had allowed it to grow long and messy. It was the first thing my mother noticed when she flung open the screen door, full of even more holes now. 

“My God, Grayson, look at your hair!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, I uh... sorry,” I said, unsure of where to look.

She pulled me in for a long embrace, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing hard. There were no weekly phone calls, no campus visits. I had left my family, and the farm, behind to pursue an education, and hopefully a more fulfilling life. Seeing my mother then, and feeling how tightly she held on to me, filled me with regret. I wanted to be happy, but was it worth the cost of abandoning her? She released me, and stroked the hair running down to my shoulders. 

“Where’s Dad?” I asked.

“He’s out back with your Uncle Jeff,” she said.

My face became flushed, my breathing shallow. I hadn’t seen Uncle Jeff or Mindy since the two disastrous encounters with them years before. In their absence, I had rearranged my priorities, my ambitions, and had become a different person all together. Even my physicality had transformed drastically. Where I was once bulky with muscle, I was now scrawny with bones silhouetted heavily through my skin. I looked like the skeleton of my former self after countless nights of being too broke to afford food. While college had provided so much in the realm of intellectual and personal growth, it had also lead me to discover lows I hadn’t imagined were possible. There were nights when my hunger became unbearable, and I would have to scavenge for the more recently expired items in the garbage bags tossed behind a nearby deli. After the spots of mold had been removed, their bagels were surprisingly bearable. 

“Uncle Jeff?” I asked, trying not to let my anxiety show.

“He wanted to help bury your Grandpa,” my mother said.

We sat on the living room couch together. She asked me a thousand questions about school, I bounced my leg up and down until my calf burned. Everything was in the same place, though the nostalgia I felt was more depressing than fond. The painted walls were fading, the wood peeling. I left out plenty of details from my recounting of the college lifestyle in America, to avoid shattering my mother’s world. Never having attended college herself, same as most of my family, she had no concept of the debauchery that ensued there. These details would cast a heavy shadow on any positive aspects I discussed. 

We had been talking for some time when my father came through the back door, Uncle Jeff tailing close behind. They both saw me and stopped short, eyebrows high. Uncle Jeff cleared his throat. He nodded at me. 

“Grayson,” he said, a hollow greeting. It was the first time he had addressed me by that name in many years. 

Uncle Jeff walked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to ease the tension my presence created, or if he was just drinking his way through the stages of grief. My father stood still. He stared at me for a while, as if I was an intruder, and then looked to my mother. 

“The hell is he doing here?” he asked, his voice stern. 

“I told him to come,” my mother replied. Her tone of voice made it seem like the request had been denied many times before. 

My father looked back at me. “You gonna ask us for money?” he said, trying to whip my pride. 

“Never have. Never will. I told you that,” I said.

“You told us a lot of things,” he said.

Uncle Jeff drank the last drops of his beer. He’d been facing the sink, trying not to listen to our conversation, and most likely failing. He fetched an armful of bottles from the fridge and walked out through the front door, retreating to the front porch to wait this conflict out. My father hadn’t moved in inch from where he initially stopped. 

“You know, he asked where you were,” he said.

“Don’t,” my mother scolded. She shook her head, fighting back tears.

It hurt me, deep inside. When my mother called me out of the blue one afternoon, I figured she had bad news. I expected it to be about my father, and while I ached at the loss of my grandpa, I was relieved when she told me. Still, I didn’t let him see my pain. 

“He knew I would’ve been there,” I said.

“If you weren’t off tryna make some fancy life for yourself,” he said, his tone mocking. 

“Why shouldn’t I be? You don’t want to see a big check in the mail? You could buy all new stuff for the farm, more cattle. I want to help you!” I raised my voice, and it shook my mother. 

“You think I’m gonna take your money?,” he said. “If you wanted to help me, you woulda stayed right here on the farm. Thinkin’ I need a damn check.” 

I looked at the floor, shaking my head slowly. “Most people are proud of their kids for getting into college,” I said. 

“Maybe the city folk. Way I see it, you up and abandoned us here. We weren’t good enough for you, weren’t sophisticated enough for all your book talk,” my father growled, “You’re just like Mindy.” 

“I’m not shit close to that girl!” I yelled. 

“Grayson,” my mother cried, twisting her head to see if Uncle Jeff could hear from outside. She couldn’t have cooled me down regardless. 

“I’m not out there partying and shitting money down the toilet! I’m not wasting my life away, here or there. I’m busting my ass trying to get a degree. Trying to learn something.” 

My father chuckled sourly. “That’s no better. How long’s it been since you went to church, even looked at a bible?” 

“Don’t you understand? That’s the whole thing that got me into this. I used to want to be like you! The way you read from that book, the energy you gave off. I wanted to move that current, like you did. I wanted to tell my stories. But now, look at you. You’re just a sad old man,” I said. The pain seeped into my words, eating its way through the rigid shell I had thrown up when my father first walked in. His eyes were softer now. He had no ridicule to counter with, no more opposition. My mother sobbed, looking at the floor. 

I stood up and walked out to the porch, where Uncle Jeff was gazing across the purple fields. There was a cluster of empty bottles sitting next to him, with small puddles of moonlight glowing on their glass curves. I dropped myself down on the edge of the wooden platform, my legs dangling over. Uncle Jeff turned to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot. 

“Your dad still loves you,” he mumbled, drunkenly.

I looked out at the farm and listened to the crickets, a great symphony of chirps. “He’s just tender ‘bout you running off to the city. I was the same way for a long time. That’s why I don’t hear from Mindy anymore,” he said.

I turned my head towards him and met his red eyes. Uncle Jeff was bent forwards, his torso swaying back and forth slightly. He drooled a bit as a hiccup pushed its way out of him. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know, “ I said, trying to comfort him. “How’s Auntie Clair holding up?” 

I saw a new depth of pain in his glazed eyes then. He took deep breathes, and cleared his throat a few times like he was trying to steady his voice before he spoke.“Couldn’t tell you. She left too,” he said.

“Jesus. I’m really sorry Uncle Jeff.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m the one who... who should be apologizing. What you saw that day. All this time I was convinced that’s why you split,” he said, words slurring together at the edges, like wet ink. 

“You don’t have to say anything about it. That wasn’t even a factor,” I assured him. After getting into it with my father, this was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

“Can’t climax without them. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just can’t.”

My eyes became wide as I nodded, the information too intimate for me. Uncle Jeff reached into his pocket and pulled out a single frog figurine. It was the golfer, with his plaid cap, watching that ball fly down the green for eternity. He ran a finger over the frog as another hiccup rocked his shoulders. Poor guy, I thought, setting aside the gruesome details he had shared. 

“This guy... he’s the sole survivor. Your aunt smashed the rest of ‘em, right before she stormed out,” Uncle Jeff continued to stroke the porcelain figure as he spoke, “you should take him. No need for him now.” 

He held out the golfing frog, staring at it longingly. I wanted nothing to do with a souvenir from my most traumatic memory, but I took it from him anyways, feeling too sorry to turn it down. I could always toss the thing in the garbage when I got off the farm, might as well complete the gesture for the time being. I studied it briefly, running my thumb across its back like Uncle Jeff had. We sat in silence for a long time, listening to the crickets and observing the grass as it rippled in the cool breeze of the night. 

I laid the pages on Amy’s desk, the small stack somewhat crinkled at its edges. She raised an eyebrow as I walked across the room and sat down on her couch. 

“Before I even read this, how many sex scenes are there?” she asked. 

“Technically one, I guess. But it’s not graphic. Just weird,” I said, smoothing the creases along my pant legs. 

“Weird?” she asked, the eyebrow still hanging high. 

“Would you just read it? I promise it’s not like the other shit,” I said. I raised a hand towards the thin stack of pages on her desk. 

Amy picked it up, mumbling about the paper being wrinkled, and started reading. I bounced my leg and fidgeted with my fingers for what seemed like an hour, shifting my position on the couch about a thousand times. Normally, the sound of me sliding back and forth on the fabric would have caused Amy to snap at me, but she didn’t look up even once. She just sat there, silently, turning page after page.  

I was looking out the window at a rooftop garden nearby when Amy cleared her throat. I turned my head towards her. The pages were back on her desk, and I waited for a response anxiously. 

“That’s what I’m talking about Grayson,” she said, a broad smile spreading across her face. 

“You liked it?” I asked. I leaned forward, nearly falling off the couch. 

“Yes I did. I really did. There are a few things we can change, maybe, but this is on a different level from your other pieces. The resentful Christian father who’s also a farmer? People love that shit,” she said with glee. 

I clasped my hands together, a wave of relief washing over my shoulders. I had been expecting her to drop me as a client that day, so at least that was off the table. 

“This reminds of that book, Harris and Me. I think that’s the name,” she said.
The excitement drained from my face. 

“Isn’t that a kids book? Like young kids?” I asked. 

“It’s a book that sold millions of fucking copies, that’s what I can tell you. I’m not saying were going to sell this thing at the book fair. I don’t think they want children reading about a guy who can’t ejaculate without a bunch of frogs watching. I’m just saying it’s got the bizarre country characters. It’s got the tone, you know?” 

I processed her words slowly, and nodded my head. It’s not like she was being critical, or demeaning really. It was the first time Amy actually responded to one of my stories with more than a hmph and a forced compliment about how I structured the scenes. I’d take what I could get. 

“So where do we go from here?” I asked. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll reach out to some people, see if I can get you in a featured fiction spread,” she said, with a tone more enthusiastic than I had ever gotten from her, apart from the day she picked me up. 

“So I can walk out of here... and not take a Xanax when I get home?” I asked

“Not unless you do it in celebration,” she said, laughing.

I walked past Nemo with a newfound swagger. She was sitting behind the reception desk, looking for a Buzzfeed article she hadn’t already started an argument in the comments section of. She didn’t look up when I came by, but I didn’t care. Amy’s praise had put me in a state of harmony. I didn’t feel the heat when I walked outside, didn’t curse at the sun for being such an asshole. I waltzed down the sidewalk, weaving through herds of people in suits, smiling so hard it hurt my cheekbones. I would have whistled if I knew how, but instead I just nodded my head, bouncing with each step. 

My apartment was cloaked in darkness, small threads of light poking in through the closed blinds. I walked through the door and went straight to the windows to fling those blinds open, letting in the afternoon sun. It washed over my small quarters, illuminating the unmade bed and the dirty dishes in the sink. The empty fifth of Johnnie Walker sat on the corner of my desk, its cap nearby. I tossed it in the trash can, and something caught my attention from across the room. I walked over to the bedside table, and picked up the porcelain frog, his plaid cap beginning to lose its color slightly. The figure used to bring me sorrow, but when I looked at it then, I couldn’t help but smile. I set the frog back down on the nightstand, leaving him to gaze forwards, intently watching an invisible ball soar through the sky. I was glad I never threw the thing away.