11

I learned that day that Sunday afternoons were the perfect day to take the bus; it was hardly crowded, and most of the stops could be barely stopped at or even skipped, because everyone was home, cooking dinner or cleaning or doing whatever businessmen do when they’re not working. The bus driver was still as unfriendly as ever, though. He was a bald man of short, stout stature with a white moustache and a wrinkled frown plastered on his face. He made paying bus fare uncomfortable and if you were ever the only one on the bus, he would probably drive it off of the bridge. At least, that was the attitude he always seemed to have.

               I pulled the line to signal that it was my stop when he drove into town square. He stopped abruptly, making it apparent that he was irritated that he couldn’t have just driven off. I hurried off, giving him a curt wave and a snide smile. The bus coughed and sputtered as he drove off, emissions climbing out of the exhaust pipes like smoke signals to other bus drivers or something. I sighed and began walking home.

               The Sunday crowd in town square was lighter than a weekday crowd; most people who worked did not usually take a liking to being home after lunch hour. Besides, most of the small shops and restaurants were closed after lunch hour, anyway. Witchgum was one of those towns that were anal about not doing anything but attending church and having family time on Sundays. It always bothered me, since I was young. I did believe in God and didn’t mind attending church on the holidays or when I was down, but being religious to the extent that most of the older generation was seemed a bit overdone to me. If everyone did it because everyone did it, was there really any meaning to it?

               I felt my stomach rumble, and realized I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. I hurried my pace home. None of the stores were open except for the convenience store by the docks, but I wasn’t particularly interested in a gas station ham sandwich. My mother actually abstained from alcohol on Sundays for whatever reason. It wasn’t like it excused her alcoholic behavior the other six days of the week. I have heard that seven is a lucky number. Maybe when you die, and stand at the golden gates of heaven, you’re put on a scale that measures your behavior throughout your whole life as a believer. Oh, you were an alcoholic? You didn’t drink on Sunday, did you? That’s okay, you only have to live 1/7^th of your life as somewhat of a good person. But god forbid it’s 2/14^ths. Nope, not getting into heaven.

               When I got home, my mother was not sprawled out on the couch or falling out of a kitchen chair, so I wasn’t too concerned about her. I took my coat off and hung it up, then slid out of my shoes and took my keys out of pocket, tossing them on the end table. I walked into the kitchen and took a beer from the fridge. My mother always bought cans instead of bottles, which I wasn’t a fan of, but at least they were easier to open, or something. I sat down on the couch and emptied the can quickly, then turned on college football and sat back with a heavy sigh.

               “Adam?” My mother’s yell was shrill and irritating. “Are you home?!”

               ”Yes,” I called back, sinking deeper into the couch.

               “Where were you this morning?” You missed church again!”

               “I was out, Ma,” I groaned, turning up the television.

               “Don’t you dare try to ignore me!” she shouted, stomping into the living room. She turned the TV off and stood in front of it. “I’m worried about you.”

               I glared at her. “What’s wrong with me?”

               “You’re so distant,” she retorted, “and you never want to spend any time with me!”

               “Well I’m sorry if you always reek of alcohol and never have anything interesting to say,” I muttered, trying to turn the game back on.

               “Excuse me!” she scoffed, snatching the remote from me. “If you’re going to live under my roof, you will not speak to me that way!”

               “It’s not your house,” I said quietly, narrowing my gaze at her. “You’re paying for it, as well as your alcoholism, with Dad’s life insurance money. I haven’t taken a penny from you since he died.” I did buy the groceries, with the exception of the alcohol.

               A look of pain struck her face, and part of me, the considerate and rational part of me, wished I hadn’t said it. But my anger was more important to me at the moment, I suppose, so I got up and went to my room. I hurried in and locked the door behind me.

               My sketchbook was on my bed. I had left it here this morning. The last thing I wanted was for Ondine to think that I was stalking her or something outrageous like that. It amazed me how something that was admiration and tribute to beauty in my eyes could be interpreted as obsession to others. I didn’t think Ondine would think I was obsessed with her; she wasn’t that self-centered. But I knew it would put her off, especially considering how little we actually knew about each other. She didn’t know my father was dead, and there was a lot about her that I never would have expected.

               Regardless of my premonitions, I still continued to edit the sketch. I opened the book to the drawing and lifted her cheekbones and tilted her sober mouth into a smile. I opened her eyes up a bit and gave a bit more clarity to them. Again, all of it was trial and error. I didn’t purposely execute these changes; things would just stand out to me as wrong, and I would adjust them until they looked right. For once, however, I only drew for around fifteen minutes before turning past the sketch and began to write.

               I listed the things about her that made me smile:

1)      Her smile

2)      The way she pouts

3)      The look in her eyes when she thinks of tiramisu

4)      How her hair is never done but always perfect

5)      Her will to dance, despite her lack of self-value and the circumstances of her education

I stopped after five. It wasn’t that there weren’t any more things that I could think of – there were far too many. But they were clouded with the ambiguity of who Ondine was. I knew that every time she showed me something knew, I would love her for it. And in a way, that frightened me. Was I obsessed with her? I didn’t think so. I hadn’t done anything along the lines of a stalker that I could recall, and she didn’t seem afraid of me at all. I was just so infatuated by her.

I closed my sketchbook and put it on my nightstand, then fell back in bed. Sunlight shone through my window, but I wished it was night. I didn’t care that I was hungry or should have apologized to my mother. I wanted to sleep until morning so all I would have to do was get up, eat breakfast, and go fishing with my crew. When I was at sea, I didn’t have to worry about who I was as a person. I just drove the boat and yelled orders over the sound of waves. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t get a girl off of my mind, it didn’t matter that my mother was milking my father’s death, and it didn’t matter that I didn’t know who I was. I was the captain.

I began to drift off, but was stirred by the sharp hunger pains in my stomach. I frowned. It wasn’t like I hadn’t eaten today. With a disgruntled groan, I forced myself out of bed and walked to the kitchen. My mother wasn’t there, and I figured she’d locked herself in her room. She always did that when we argued. The only reason we ever argued was when she was sober, because she treated me like a child when I was the one taking care of her. It was a shame that Sunday was the only day she didn’t drink, because we never had time to make up before she got drunk again.

Unfortunately, all of my rotten thoughts didn’t spoil my appetite. I really didn’t feel like eating. I poured some milk and cereal in a bowl anyway, and ate it in silence, thoughtless but irritated.

I didn’t enjoy a single spoonful.