Page 44 -

Uncle Dave (continued from preceding page)
ice cream lugged from the deep-freeze. Perhaps in an effort to pep me up, Mom let me lick the spoon of the hot fudge she’d cooked on the stove before banishing me to the backyard when the sugar hit my brain. “You can do less damage out there,” she said, shielding
the numerous pots on the stove as I caterwauled and skipped around the kitchen.
I burst out the backdoor, sending the neighbor’s cat, who snuck naps on our deck, fleeing. Dad was scrap- ing bits of char off the grill with a brush that had never seen the inside of a dishwasher. I walked toward the back of our property; our yard riotous with dandelions. My white sneakers sent the ground trembling and the bees and grasshoppers to quieter patches of flowers. I passed through the tree line that separated our backyard from the forest. Shafts of sun- light passed through the trees and pierced the pine- needle blanketed ground. I dragged my foot in the dirt making figure eights and spelling out my favorite dirty words. “S-H-I-T” I wrote before kicking dirt over the letters and rewriting them in cursive.
An old trampoline, salvaged from the side of the road by my brother, sat in a clearing. He’d made me prom- ise when he brought it home that if I got hurt playing on it, I wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad how it got there in the first place. “Just tell them you found it here in the woods,” he’d said as if Mom and Dad were that stupid.
I heave myself over the edge, the metal frame sticking to the skin beneath my shorts. I give the trampoline
a few test bounces, nothing crazy, just enough to
get a feel for the woven plastic mat. Little by little I jump higher, running through my arsenal of tricks:
air splits, seat drops, and pike jumps, warming up for the big one, a front flip that I’ve only just mastered. I arched forward, grabbing my knees. The world rotat- ing three-hundred and sixty degrees: tree trunks, black trampoline mat, blue sky, back to tree trunks. Adrenaline courses through my body and the tips
of my fingers, charged like the air before a thunder- storm. Someone turns on a country music station and the twangy notes of a Garth Brooks song drift toward me on the humid air.
~
Guests arrive in groups. People from church, work friends, and family, all milling around the deck, drink-
ing iced tea and waiting for hot dogs to come off the grill. Uncle Dave sits on a lime-green lawn chair dab- bing at his forehead with a paper towel while mom’s lady friend yammers on about her family’s beach house.
“It’s pretty annoying having all those people laying out on beach towels and picnicking all the time,” she says, forking a cucumber slice.
Uncle Dave frowns. “It’s a public beach.” “Technically,” she says.
He gets up from his chair. “Excuse me,” he says with- out further explanation. I hear him mutter “elitist bullshit,” on his way to the grill. Dad gives him a large hamburger. They both look in the direction of Mom’s friend and shake their heads knowingly.
Mom saunters over, glass of something in her hand. She’s wearing a green and yellow sundress, slightly low-cut. When she thinks no one is looking, she blots her chest with the top of her dress, adjusting her cleavage to its best advantage. She drains her glass while Uncle Dave squirts ketchup on his burger. Mom nods in the direction of her friend who is now talking with the youth minister from our church, cucumbers forgotten.
I know this isn’t the good-natured ribbing she usually gives Uncle Dave when he throws his plate onto the condiment table. The hamburger rolls off the deck and into the flowerbeds, leaving a trail of ketchup
and grease. Mom stumbles a bit, her mouth hanging open like a stunned trout. Dad puts his hand on the small of her back, steadying her. Uncle Dave gives her a look of disgust before storming off into the forest.
Dad leads Mom into the house. One of dad’s cowork- ers runs to the grill and liberates a few hot dogs on the verge of burning while everyone else glances at each other awkwardly. Someone turns the volume
on the radio up and tries to start a sing-along. My sneakers are glued to the deck; I can’t decide who to follow. Should I run after Mom and Dad, or should I follow Uncle Dave into the forest? The youth minister attempts to comfort me, something about disagree- ments actually being healing and how we’re all only human after all. When he tries to sign me and dad up for the youth bowling trip, I make a decision.
~
I find Uncle Dave sitting on the secret trampoline, legs dangling over the side, his face in his hands. When he hears my footfall he looks up, squinting as
37