What I remember of my cousin killing his sister is the sound. The stabbing that sounded like knocking, the knife being driven so hard into Agnes’ stomach it cleared the other side, striking the tub’s yellowing fiberglass. By then the whole house was yellowing. We’d moved into the duplex after my father gave up. My mother’s chain-smoking sister was going to save us. She believed in the power of prayer, mostly to Elvis.
Agnes died in a bathtub when I was thirteen. She was sixteen. And Karl was gone, completely gone in every way that counted.
The week after the murder, I was supposed to have sex with Bunny. All three of my brothers had fucked her. A sort of family tradition. The last thing my father commanded. He said it like this: “I won’t raise no little fairies.” Which meant at the ripe age of thirteen, we were to march up to the place above the dry cleaners where she charged johns “a hundred for BBFS, for anything, baby,” because at twenty-five her finesse pimp had talked her into thinking she was high mileage already. When we marched back down we were supposed to be men.
Instead, my first time seeing a girl’s naked body was when I peeked inside that bathroom. Agnes floated there in the tub, calm-faced, her skin shimmering like a benzo’d Vishnu. I remembered her lips, parted just enough to look like she was about to say, fuck all of you. None of you cared about anything but dog races and check fraud and your little numbers.
Obviously, I wasn’t up for seeing Bunny. Even if all the boys in town said she was world class cunt. Even if it was commanded. But I was afraid if I didn’t quickly erase the image of Agnes, it would permanently lacquer itself across my mind. Shining, following me into future bedrooms. So, I dragged myself to Bunny’s. I had to prove that all girls weren’t stiff and blue. Hey, baby. You’re late. Bunny took my hand and led me inside her apartment. One small lamp. One condom laid out like a chocolate on the pillow. She pushed me back onto the bed. Then stood above, slowly taking off each piece of what the jealous Oakcreek wives called “dumb bitch clothing.” Underneath she was pink. Shaved. To my relief, she moved and breathed. There was a Tweety Bird tattoo above her left hip. This was what all respectable pussy feared. Pussy like a vacuum. Pussy that deletes. She kissed my neck below the ear. Took my fingers and put them inside her. Pussy as a cartoon. Pussy to delude oneself. Pussy as way to save a marriage. New pussy. Bunny crawled closer, her perky ass in the air. She did her best to pull me into the moment, but I could still feel the yellowing house looming behind. I felt three of my brothers pinning my cousin Karl to the ground. Spitting on him. And behind them, my bi-polar mother. Not watching, totally consumed with counting her tickets. Cash King. Slot Mania. Extreme Crossword. 10X Bliss. Pacing, rambling on and on and on and on about what she would buy us when she finally got that golden, juicy win. How things would change. Behind her, my aunt holding her daughter. Blood smeared across her chest and neck. The screaming. Behind that, my family learning that all true enemies came from within. That family had an inherent need for violence. That it was the young men who took up causes, who were obsessed with saving trees and the world that were the most deranged. Behind were people whispering that maybe Karl was retarded. That we’d done something to him. Had to have done something to make him end up the way that he did. Whispers that there was something wrong with my family. White Trash Royalty, they called us. Behind our backs. As a joke. As a way to evict. Behind were doctors that did not take my mother’s pleas seriously. She had demons in her, she was not bi-polar, please, just listen. They didn’t. The evil in her was passed down through the blood. Check the blood. Her father. Her father’s father. Behind me she was bi-polar, then borderline, then skit-zo-fren-ik. Then left behind. My father moving off to Florida. To bet on dogs. To fuck people over that didn’t know what it cost to fix a car. Ten years later, behind me, another of my cousins jumped off the overpass. Maybe my mother was right. Something wrong in us. All of us in that house, pretending that we wanted out. Two discarded women. One talking to angels, driving her car through the neighbor’s lawn. One chain smoking two packs a day. Blowing thick yellow rails into the blinds and carpet. The drinking glasses turning yellow. The TV screen turning yellow. The teeth and the skin. Behind me, Karl wrote about true love. Scratched ideas into hidden notebooks. Things about his sister’s body. Her boyfriends. About how she was turning into a little slut. After that night, Karl committed to being a simpleton. He never moved past the age of seventeen, the year 1995. The truth is hardly ever enough. Behind me Joe the Basehead screamed hard Rs at the Sunday crowd. People coming out of church, who dared pray for Karl. Joe also loved Agnes. Everyone loved Agnes. Aggie, forced to become the Saint of Payday Loans. Behind me, it was ankle monitors and “born to lose.” Bunny told me to fuck her quick. She didn’t want to get all sweaty. She didn’t want to end up looking like a whore for her presentation. She was getting out of here. She’d saved up. She knew too much about holes. And did I want to put it in her ass? Did I have the extra money? “What was wrong?” she asked. She put my big wet head against her hard taught silicone. New tits from Tijuana. She said don’t pay what people were saying no mind. They weren’t like us. They didn’t have to live in a yellowing house. She talked about the nosy bitches. Who pretended to care. They were all so thoughtful and caring. She said when successful people were also thoughtful and caring, it was just greedy. They should at least do us the favor of being awful. Behind me Karl was lost in the dream of marrying his sister. Drowning in acts of worship. Dreaming in yellow.
