And, So, I Drank It
We imagined ourselves on the wild frontier, our powerful horses carrying us through deserts and mountains, across streams, away from one danger and into another. We were witches, concocting potions in the rain to wreak havoc upon those who'd wronged us. We were the President's kids, rebelling on motorcycles, dodging the Secret Service.
Our childhood play was thematic and never-ending. We adopted characters for each of our stories. When we bored of one, we moved easily to another, picking up about where we'd left off the last time.
Weekend after weekend, summer after summer, we cycled through our favorite adventures, throwing in plot twists and deviations as we explored the possibilities of our imaginations.
We lived on a house boat in shark- or alligator-infested waters, depending on our mood, the air. When the stars and constellations appeared in the night sky, we became aliens. As Dippers, we walked with our arms at odd angles, punctuating each footstep with a noise akin to that of a suction cup's release.
Our props were limited. Our bikes morphed seamlessly from snow mobiles to horses to motorcycles to lions or tigers or giraffes escaped from a circus train wreck. My parents' covered porch served as stolen yacht, secret prison, sinking houseboat, runaway train. The wooden jungle gym Father built was a castle, a casino, a tree in the rain forest, a military command center. We climbed to the roof of our shed and looked down from a snowy mountain, an abandoned water tower, a wayward blimp.
We explored the woods, darting into and out of the state park just on the other side of the railroad tracks before the rangers made their rounds. The open fields surrounding our house were just as likely battle sites as movie sets.
Kel was agreeable, for the most part. She did her best to stay neutral in the sibling spats YB and I so often tried to pull her into. She went along with almost anything and instigated almost nothing. Unthinking, really, is what she was. Not dumb. Just not bright.
Deep conversations were limited, but Kel did have a more serious side. Like when she talked about her scars. It had been her oldest brother's fault. He poured gasoline onto a bonfire. The flame traveled up the liquid stream and leaped over to her little body. Hers. Not his. The scars covered most of her stomach, parts of her neck, back and legs. She kept them hidden, mostly, and rarely brought the subject up.
Looking back, I realize that Kel had a much better grasp of the unfairness of life than I did.
Kel's Mee Maw and Paw Paw lived right next door to her. Their house was always cool and bright and quiet and spotlessly clean. Mee Maw made the best sweet tea you'd ever tasted. Paw Paw gave us snacks of bright red tomatoes fresh from the garden or huge, juicy, purple grapes from the vine.
In all our years of playing, I found myself inside Kel's house but a handful of times. The tiny square building looked unkempt from the outside. It had needed a fresh coat of paint for as long as I could remember. The steps leaned to the side and had two missing boards. The grass was always too long and littered with bikes and shoes and bottles and tires and whatever else didn't make it wherever it should have gone.
Inside, the place was dark and gloomy. The windows were covered with heavy-duty trashbags, probably to minimize the sunlight, since there was no central air.
Her father never seemed to leave. The monstrous television was always on and blaring NASCAR at top volume while her father chain-smoked Marlboro Reds and drank can after can of Milwaukee's Best.
Piles of things, stacked for years against the walls, the tables, the furniture, had edged gradually to the center of every room, leaving only slender walking trails of bare floor from one room to the next. In the kitchen, stacks of dirty dishes filled the sink, hiding the faucet from sight, and covered the counters, the stove.
Sweaty, sleepless nights in the dank house reminded me to say no the next time she asked me to sleep over. To suggest we stay at my place, in the cool air conditioning, where we'd stay up late watching forbidden movies and awake early to Stepmom making breakfast and eat warm biscuits and scrambled eggs in our bright, clean kitchen.
But we always stay at your house, she'd remind me, doing a bad job of masking her hurt feelings. And so I'd give in. Prepare myself for those unpalatable sights, smells, sounds.
Friendship means trade-offs, after all.
One sweltering afternoon when our play led us nearer her house than mine, we stopped by Mee Maw & Paw Paw's for an ice cold glass of tea. When we saw they weren't home, Kel suggested we trek next door to her house to quench our thirst.
As my eyes adjusted to the dark of the oppressive kitchen, I glimpsed the critters scampering out of the skillet used, it appeared, to make Hamburger Helper. Chills ran up my sweat-covered spine, and I willed Kel to move faster.
She brought out two glasses and lifted the pitcher of tea, only to set it back down immediately. I found the reason for her hesitation --- three tiny roaches floating on the surface of the dark, strong beverage --- just as she swooped her unwashed hand down to fish them out. Without a word, she unceremoniously cast the pests onto the floor, poured us each a tall glass of the tainted tea, and began gulping hers down immediately.
I looked at her and at the glass intended for me. And I wished I had a good reason to leave. I strained to hear someone calling for me to come home. Desperately searched for an honest getaway.
When I didn't reach for my glass, she handed it to me, eyeing me sideways as she chugged.
Clutching the befouled drink in both hands, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself somewhere else. Anywhere else. But I continued to breathe the heavy smoke-filled air. My ears were still assaulted by the ear-splitting racing noises emanating from the next room. My overheated body still ached for a break from the airless, high-temperature humidity.
Kel's glass was almost empty, and she was regarding me steadily out of the corner of her eye. I knew she'd seen me see those bugs. And I knew she was testing me. Testing my friendship. And, so, I drank it.
I'd never tasted such a bittersweet concoction. Choking down that contaminated beverage on that intolerable day, we watched each other. And I knew that Kel knew I wouldn't be back to her home. Wouldn't be making trade-offs and compromises for her friendship anymore. Oddly, I could sense in her something akin to satisfaction in possessing the knowledge.
