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Pif Magazine
ISSN: 1094-2726
Published by:
Pif, LLC
PMB 248
4820 Yelm Hwy SE
Suite B
Lacey, WA 98503-4903
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| PAST MACRO-FICTION | MORE FICTION |
"Hey, Sloth," my father said.
I was playing cards on the ground behind the tent. It was the only place in camp that had any shade, and even so I was half in and half out of the sun. My back baked like the dirt. I touched my neck to make sure I wasn't sunburned, then I dealt myself another hand.
"Sloth," he said again.
I looked up, squinting to make out his features. His temples were sweaty, and his blue eyes stared me down. Bedroom eyes, my mother said.
‘Sloth’ was a new one. Dad used to call my brother Grayson 'Eddy' for 'Oedipus,' and when they were still married he called my mom 'The Jailer.' I'm not the most energetic person - at least not willingly - so 'Slug' used to be mine, which was okay with me. New names, though, only come out in moments of truth. "Did the name 'Slug' lose its ring?" I asked.
He didn't answer. In my game, the king of spades was up. I moved the ten of hearts on top of a jack and shifted the king into the empty space, then fanned three more cards from the deck.
Dad bent to survey the cards. His T-shirt stuck to his underarms, and he gave off a briny, acrid smell. "You can build on the six of diamonds to free up your second stack," he said. Then he straightened. "Let's go for a walk."
As if it were an ordinary thing, running around the Texas desert in middle of a summer day. "Are you out of your mind?" I said. "It's at least a hundred degrees out. Besides," I patted my cheek, "I have to protect my delicate skin. I don't want to get all wrinkly."
"Sarah, you're thirteen years old. And you're already sitting in the sun."
"But I'm not moving." The neat rows of cards seemed to waver in the still air. "I want to finish this game, see if I can beat myself for once."
"The game's not going anywhere," Dad said. He gestured towards a blur of trees in the distance. "We are."
"Is that a command?"
"Grayson's going. Maybe we'll see the Colima."
"At noon?" I heaved myself up anyway, brushing dirt off the back of my shorts. It was coming, whatever the moment was, and I couldn't do much to avoid it now.
* * *
Grayson and Dad's girlfriend, Cara, were already waiting in front of the picnic table, binoculars around their necks. Cara wore a pink quilted day pack and shorts much too short, I thought, for the occasion. But I smiled at Grayson, who was hanging onto Cara's hand as we came up. He was six-and-a-half, a little guy with that crazy white hair kids sometimes have, and he didn't get the picture. Cara smiled back. Her mouth stretched wide as she looked at Dad. "Oh, Sarah, I'm so glad you're coming. It's going to be fun, don't you think? I packed us all sandwiches." She patted the day pack.
"Sure," I said. I had nothing against Cara. There had been others before her, I knew-- others while he was with my mother-- and it was only a matter of time before Dad made the break. He was like that: always looking for change, always looking for something different from what came before. I was polite. If it hadn't been Cara, it would have been somebody else.
