Saturday, July 01, 2006

Sometimes, too, he thought of hillsides. As a child his father would take him up steep inclines, would motion to the sky, would show him where God lived. Now, most days after school he'd drive with friends to a sandwich shop, have a footlong turkey sub on a whole wheat roll, gaze absently at freshly chopped fixings glistening in stainless steel buckets behind the sneeze guard. On these occasions he could imagine himself becoming his father; with watering mouth he'd given silent thanks for green pepper slices and fresh tomatoes, for the terrestrial wonder of black and green olive wedges, for rings of red onion. Mayonnaise and bits of moist bread collected in his molars, mortared in place by the plastered chew of potato chips, a paste of salt and dough. On Fridays, Rachel would meet him here after work, her lips stained a faint, sweet green from wheat grass juice, and they would drive to a sunny stretch of hill about seven miles out in the country. On a soft plaid blanket, she'd lay herself open to him, her legs taut, and he'd maneuver himself over her, rest between her on raw kneecaps, kiss honey (or when all else failed, Diet Dr. Pepper) from her smallish breasts. Breathless after, she'd dart half-formed stories into the air; and he, for his part, would half-listen, would stroke her nipples, brown, braised, obliquely alive -- large flat saucers glazed with his own saliva and hard with the ghost of his tongue. Home, he'd change his clothes and move languidly to the garage, watch his father mutter strange words over sandpaper and wood. It was his father's halting, breathy music which drew him here -- his father's song. His father prayed so often, he told the boy once, because heaven is everywhere. God is everywhere.