Eidetic by DL Shirey
Robert Andresson, 67, barber. His limp came from a self-inflicted wound in Vietnam. He came back to Port City and never left again. Next to him is his sister, Annie Lemare. She’s 62 and recently married her fourth, a woman this time.
Seeing them takes me back to July 4th, 2016, at our annual backyard barbecue when my parents made me do my trick for Robert and Annie. The five of us were gathered around a stack of paperbacks on the picnic table. “Pick a book, any book,” it would start. “Open to any page.”
She picked the book; he thumbed a clump of pages.
I recited: “‘Queequeg, to my amazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his chest, arms, and hands. He then donned his waistcoat and taking up a piece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre table, dipped it into water and commenced lathering his face.'”
Mr. Andresson bent with laughter and cracked the binding of Moby Dick when he slapped the book against his knee. “This kid is how old?”
I was ten then. My folks didn’t know what to do with me except show me off like a trained chimp. At school my circus act was more freakshow. My memory was so good I was able to skip three grades in two years and Mom started homeschooling me. Not that she was any whiz. She did it to save me from weekly beatings.
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Kyle Gertner, 15, most recent residence at the Juvenile Detention facility. Kicked the crap out of me when I purposely put all wrong answers on the take-home quiz he forced me to do. Lately he’s been spending time with Veronica Gomez, first woman guard at Juvie. She’s 28 and had a fraternal twin sister, Valerie, who stayed in Eugene after graduating college.
I’m currently attending University of Oregon myself; the youngest full-time student ever to attend. I’m a sophomore now, but I’m back home in California for the time being. This is not a reunion I ever imagined. Even though Port City is a small town, there are so many faces to recall.
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Carla Rogers, 47, volunteered at the cat shelter after her only daughter eloped. Nathan Baxter, 51, was the new county Sheriff. He used to coach football at the high school until he ran against my Dad in the last election.
Because Mr. Baxter was among those who drowned, they asked Dad to help. And he called me. There weren’t enough locals left to do everything that needed to be done after the flood. I couldn’t not help; Mrs. Papadimitriou doesn’t need to peek in every body bag to see if her great-grandson is among the victims. Timmy’s here, age seven.
People wonder how I can do this and not let it affect me. They think I’m a cold person, that I have no feelings. Not true. I’ve been so different for so long, I just push everything down to analyze later. Better to sort through emotions when I’m alone. Sometimes I need to feel happy, so I’ll relive a nice memory. Like the first time a girl kissed me. Greta Landover. We were nine and she wanted me to kiss her. I could tell because she put her face an inch from mine and closed her eyes. But I was too scared to do it, so she kissed me first.
I’d rather remember the way she was then. Today would have been—is—her birthday. Happy sweet 16, Greta.
This will definitely be a day I’ll file away to use when it’s time to feel sad. Right next to the day Mom died. Two years ago, April 24th, 2:17 p.m.
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DL Shirey lives in Portland, Oregon under skies the color of bruises. Occasionally he lightens up, but his dark fiction can be found in Confingo, Zetetic, Liquid Imagination and in anthologies from Truth Serum Press and Literary Hatchet. Short of listing them all, visit www.dlshirey.com and @dlshirey on Twitter.
