“Don’t ever say that shit again,” their dad said, affecting a bored tone. “I ever hear you say something that stupid again I’ll chop off your other hand myself.”
“Good! Do it! I wish you fucking would, old man! I want you to. I’ll never leave this house, ever, and you and mom will pay for all my stuff and wipe my ass and feed me and jerk me off and I’ll never get a job. I’ll melt into the ground; I’ll always be here. I’ll haunt you. Know why? I’m living forever.”
“Dream on.” Their dad slid to the door that led to the garage.
“Just wonderful,” sighed their mother from the couch.
“You don’t have any idea,” said Christopher, as he shook his head.</span.
“Listen: I think you need to talk to someone, Chris. A professional. This isn’t…,” tried their mother.
“No, I don’t. Maybe you need to, Mom. Because, like, I got the message. So, I ended the call.”
“What?” said their mother. She turned to face him, incredulous.
“You know what I dream about? You wanna know what I see when I sleep, Mom?”
“I—no,” she said.
“I dream of this alligator behind our house and the edge of the fence. I can’t tell if it’s her at first. The trees move too much, but I can feel she’s there. That alligator’s a part of me. She walks on two legs.” He inhaled sharply and Meadow thought he was going to cry. But he was not. “And I get right to the fence and all I see are her eyes, but I can’t get past. If I could get there, I could tell you all and then you’d finally see, Mom. I will soon and I—”
“Not an ounce of respect! You didn’t learn a thing and that’s a damned shame,” their father interrupted, sticking his head through the kitchen door. “There’s something missing there, boy, and it’s more than your hand.” Satisfied with his delivery, their dad slammed the door shut again.
Christopher rolled his eyes. “Anyways, she’s on two legs and—”
“I don’t want to hear this! You’re scaring me.” Their mother stood up from the couch and went to her bedroom. Meadow heard the thrum of the shower.
“You people seriously fucking suck.” Christopher drifted to the living room and flopped on the couch.
“Why are you being so mean to them?” asked Meadow as she sat on the arm.
“I’m not being mean. I only know truth. Not my problem that nobody can handle that.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Watch TV, get stoned.”
“Can I get stoned too?”
“Are you going to get scared?”
“No. I don’t get scared anymore.”
He shrugged. After zoning out on a commercial for a new spring roll special at a local drive thru, he went to push himself up from the couch with both hands, then remembered with a startled hiss of pain.
Not far from their home were long prospects of orange trees. Deep groves of oranges weighted like jewels. Shadowy places, fragrant and backlit by the sun that falls between in thick panels, where the breeze whispers in branches and blossoms. The window in Christopher’s room was half-opened and frilly ferns rustled in the brief, hot dusk. The sky was dappled and saturated and orange, like marmalade, and the shadows of coming night moved in inky shapes. He pointed to the lighter and she handed it to him.
“Tell the story.”
He blew Os to the slice of sun. There was a time years ago when he had told her with finality that no other human on the whole planet was related to her more than he was. He began his story—and because they were so much of the same, she was with him.
Light drizzle speckled the pond’s surface. The moon shone across in long melted nickel streaks and a single frond of a large and droopy fan palm stirred the far end like a finger—but there was no sound.
Everything deepened.