Giraffes and Other Stories

Vanishing Act

Man, man, man, Galile in the bedroom tells me to, Shit or get off the pot.

I have the door open so I can watch dad in silk pajamas, his head propped up on three flat pillows, his cheeks caved and spiked with whiskers he would not have tolerated before. He thinks I can’t see him but I do. I know you’re still there, I call from the toilet. Dad’s skin is the color of parmesan cheese. His friend, Galile, is large and dark. He helps me whenever dad decides to hide beneath the bed. Just pretend I’m not here, dad laughs as if to imply we won’t be able to do it, but if we take too long to get him up, he’ll slap at our feet with his fists and want to know, What’s the problem out there?

I buckle my pants, wash my hands, come back into the bedroom where dad lights a cigarette though he hasn’t smoked in years. Galile is gone, unable to wait anymore; I watched him through the bathroom window walk outside and relieve himself on dad’s roses, aiming his stream toward the wild vine of thorn. MacLorne Park, dad says and points a bony finger. I answer, The first time you tossed a frisbee with me.

Red Diskcraft, 175g Ultrastar, dad knew his stuff, has smoke in his lungs, tells me to, Go on.

I describe all I recall.

Peddlemarks, he says.

The restaurant you took me to the afternoon I left for college.

John Garfield.

Your favorite actor.

September of ‘87.

We drove down together for Barb’s wedding.

Got into it pretty good.

You brought up Nixon.

History will show, dad coughs.

The pills and water cover the nightstand beside his bed. Dad leans over and drops his cigarette on the floor. When I go around to crush it out, he crawls off the other side, shuffles as best he can to the closet and closes the door. Pretend I’m not here, he says.

I can’t do that.

Just try.

Alright, I stand there and wait to see what will happen.

Summer of ‘99, he says.

I thought you wanted me to pretend.

Can you?

No.

Ha!

I go to the closet and open the door. Dad has on one of mom’s old hats. Remember? he asks.

I didn’t know you still had that.

Did you think I gave it away?

I just didn’t know.

It’s all here if you care to look.

I take a step closer, lift the hat carefully from dad’s head and put it back on the shelf. Let me help you, I say.

If you don’t mind, his head rolls on his neck, his frame as thin as pipe cleaner sticks. Look both ways, he says.

Do your homework.

Alex Pierceal.

You introduced us, got him to hire me.

As an intern.

All the same.

You did the rest, Dad comes from the closet, lets me help him back to bed. I should pee first, he says, and I take him to the bathroom. One for the road, he chuckles softly and closes the door. It doesn’t hurt, he tells me. Not in the way you think.

I don’t know what to think.

Pretend I’m not here, he says again.

Can you see the roses outside? I want to distract us.

I’m sitting, dad answers, like a girl.

Look out the window. Galile pissed all over them.

It’s ok, dad doesn’t seem surprised. You remember, he says, and I wait for him to continue. Several seconds elapse however. I call in, Dad? and he replies, Well, do you?

I open the door and he’s standing naked in front of me. The idea of seeing him this way was unfathomable before, the situation unavoidable now. The shunt where the chemo went in is still in his chest, a porthole looking much like a hollow key to a strange wind instrument. Did you have an accident? I ask.

St. Mercy’s of the Valley.

When I broke my wrist.

Falling from your bike.

You took me to the hospital in your barbecue apron.

Lost my chef’s hat in the wind, he slips slowly past me, the back of his legs, his arms and butt sagging like fleshy sacks of water halfway drained. He stands a moment at the side of the bed, feeling his feet on the floor and the force of gravity against him. Alright then, he says, and lies down, pulling the sheet up to his waist. Remember, he tells me, and slips one of the pillows from behind his head.

In my hands the weight is too much. It’s as it’s supposed to be, dad says. Still, I feel if I let go the pillow will crash through the floor. I want to quit, but dad is smiling and telling me to, Just pretend.

I think again of MacLorne Park, dad with the frisbee and how hard I tried to learn. My throws though were erratic, hooking every which way and often into the woods. Thumb up. Hand straight. Your point of release is important, dad was patient with me. He did his best to make me laugh and waited as I chased all of my bad tosses down. Once I went deep into the woods and couldn’t find the frisbee, and for a moment thought I was lost. I remember calling out, Dad? Dad? and how he answered, I’m here, he said. I’m here.

What Takes Hold

The boy on red bike rides past my window, his arms and legs like gear rods set, flying by every few minutes. Too fast! I’ve told him before about the dangers, how there are cars and darting cats, bumps in the sidewalk, places where the cement is pushed from below by tree roots and the natural shift of the earth’s surface. Please slow down! I call, convinced his wheels will pitch out from under him when he least expects, but the boy’s oblivious, is seven and immune to any sort of warning.

The girl in the yard is three years older, a high strung, spike-weed who unsettles my nerves in a way her brother doesn’t. Day after day I struggle against her outbursts, how fractious, self-pitying and prideful she can be. Why? Why? Why? she shouts whenever I refuse one of her ridiculous requests. She’s given to bitter fits and fictions I punish by nailing her butterfly wings to tree bark. The girl squirms then and calls for her mother.

I sit at a slight recline, sip at my drink, wait for the boy to come around again. His arms are high this time, his t-shirt flapping in the breeze. I won’t be surprised if he passes next riding upside down, his feet in a dance with his head on the seat. Slow down! I want his mother to go and get him, but if I ask her to intervene, she’ll tell me, Leave him be. She accuses me of smothering him, of micro-managing his coming and going, all of which is untrue. I let him play at the park, for example, even though I know what goes on there, how much trouble a child can get into. Still I let him go, my eye on the clock, ready to drive the three blocks if he’s a minute late getting home. A good boy, this rarely happens.

The dog barks. The girl in the yard laughs along with her friends. I’m sure they’re teasing him, hiding his bone or throwing his ball in the bushes. How this amuses the girl I don’t understand, as she’s always the first to complain if someone mistreats her. Annoyed, I refuse to get up and address the racket. I have my drink and book and see no reason I should be forced to tell the girl it’s Sunday and people don’t want to listen to that sort of nonsense. Of course, even if I go to the window and calmly ask the girl to stop causing the dog to bark, I know she’ll respond with denial, insist she was doing nothing of the kind, or even more likely point out, We’re just playing with him. Just playing, she’ll say, and if I persist, she’ll remind me, Aren’t you always telling me we should spend time with the dog? He barks when he’s happy. I can’t play with him and expect him not to bark. If you don’t want me ever to play with him, she’ll try this too, and if instead I jump from my chair angry and shout at her, Cut it out! she’ll glare at me and pout, growl and hiss and make my life miserable for many days to come.

I take another sip from my drink, try my best to ignore the noise, but the dog yelps again, and frustrated, I ask my wife, What’s going on? I want her to help me, though she doesn’t seem to notice, remains at the kitchen table writing postcards to friends she hasn’t spoken with in ages. What a puzzle she is. How hard to know the best way to handle a marriage. To amuse myself these last few years, I often think: It won’t be long before I leave you. (My brother lives in Surfside, owns a bait and tackle shop and spends his days with hooks and lines in the water. I picture myself at the shore, with sand and waves, near rocks on cliffs beaten flat by every sort of storm.) My wife’s a tall woman with thin shoulders, her breasts and hips adding slight angles to her form. Her features are strong, her chin firm and nose round, her cheeks arched and cut high. Her eyes are soft however, green petals set wet under glass. Why’s the dog barking? I try in this way now to gain her assistance, and still she says only, I don’t know. Does it matter?

Are you telling me it doesn’t bother you?

He’s a dog. They’re children.

Dogs and children, I know.

I shift in my chair, make a quick calculation, consider again the chance I’ll succeed in silencing the hound if I get up and go out back. My wife continues to disregard the dog’s yip-yip-yipping, tolerates whatever the girl and her friends are up to, all of which annoys me further. What’s her problem? Doesn’t she understand I’m asking for a little cooperation? Where is the give and take, the ongoing application of debits and deposits all marriages survive on? If she doesn’t help me now, why should I do anything for her later? I’m halfway out of my chair when the sound outside suddenly changes, becomes louder still, all six girls howling, their laughter like cowbells clanging on a long stretch of wire. The dog in a huff-huff-huff sprints around the yard, yelping every few seconds, determined to join their hysterics. I stand and curse, nearly spilling my drink which is on the floor beside my chair. Fine, I say. I’ll take care of it.

Leave them be, my wife now tells me, not critical but bored and firm.

They’re too loud, I insist.

It’s summer and they’re outside.

It’s Sunday.

So? Who minds?

The neighbors.

All the kids in the yard belong to the neighbors.

And the dog?

My wife, for the first time, looks at me. I debate whether challenging her further is worth the effort, decide if I knew for certain I could quiet the hound without the girl starting in on me I’d take the chance, but there’s no guarantee. Well hell, I give in, and rather than argue my right to have a quiet afternoon against the claim that others—including the dog—are equally entitled to enjoy the day, I reach for my drink, think again, It won’t be long, and announcing for the record, If that’s what you want, I go out front to the porch.

The boy races by, his cheeks pink as he crouches low and peddles hard. Be careful! I call out, to which he answers, I am, then disappears around the corner. Across the street, the fat kid comes from his garage with a basketball in his hands. I watch him bounce the ball three times before it fails to rise high enough and he has to bend further than desired, missing the ball completely. He returns to the garage, comes out again a second later with an air pump and needle, sits with the pump on the front step and over-inflates the ball to rock hard dimensions. When he dribbles now the ball ricochets up from the driveway too fast, his first attempt at the basket smacking against the rim and sending the ball back out as if fired from a slingshot. He retrieves the ball, launches another attempt, this time striking only the backboard. The sequence is repeated twice more, the ball each time bouncing high and away before rolling toward the street.

The boy returns and pulls up in front of our house. Can I? he asks and points across the street. His eyes are wide and cheeks still flush. How generous, I think, his wanting to play with the fat kid. You don’t have to, I nearly say. He’s too old for you, too slow and awkward and why would you want to? Instead, I can’t refuse him. (The boy is already off his bike, is standing so perfectly before me waiting for permission, it’s all I can do not to go and hug him.) Be careful, I say and watch after him.

The fat kid’s mother is DeeDee Hamstrom. DeeDee has bleached white hair, worn thick and long, drawn back like the mane of a unicorn. Divorced, pear-shaped and a full head shorter than my wife, DeeDee waves whenever she passes and I happen to be outside. Hey stranger, she leans from