The Sea-Wave Read Free Page A

a pearl leash sniffing out gossip then trotting up to your table and vomiting. I like her gossip because it’s malicious and it’s nice to know who’s dying. She is shallow and destructive.
    My dad and Coral are siblings but don’t talk much. When she comes over he likes to say hi then take a nap or run errands. Then Coral will put her feet up and talk to my mom for hours.
    I typically avoid my family but with Aunt Coral I don’t mind hanging around and listening. It’s great listening to people gossip because it’s the one time they mean what they’re saying. It has to be a huge relief to people. Aunt Coral likes to kick off her tight shoes — it probably feels like that. She gets so comfortable, it’s like she’s lounging on her skeleton. And then she says the most shocking things about everyone I ever heard of, and never stops smiling.
    I like Aunt Coral. She talks to me without changing her voice, like I’m an everyday person. She even talks to me when other people have left the room. That’s a small thing, but it means a lot.
    One time she told just me that her one daughter wasn’t even her husband’s daughter, but just from some fling with the butcher. I thought: Why are you telling me this? But I guess she needed to tell someone and figured I was a pretty safe bet for discretion.
    The last time I saw Coral she was fifty pounds heavier than the time before. She wheezed just coming up the front steps, and right away sat down. She doesn’t leave her house much now but sits in her armchair with the phone in her hand. “I tell people the truth,” she told my mom once, “but I tell my telephone everything .” All day she sits there soaking up gossip and getting fatter and fatter. She needs a cane now from the knee strain, and will probably be in a wheelchair one day. I’m kind of looking forward to it.

Shit

    T he day I fell down the stairs . . .
    Mom asked me if I was okay staying home by myself for an hour or two while she went to the dentist, and I of course said yes. I was initially supposed to go along but she was running behind. She took me to the bathroom then took off.
    I thought I’d watch a movie. So I wheeled towards the elevator, which is right at the top of the stairs. I pressed down hard on the forward button on the directional pad. Pressing harder doesn’t make me go any faster, it’s just impertinence. Once in a while, though, pressing too hard makes the button stick. Which is just what happened. Sometimes I can unstick the button, but there wasn’t time, there’s maybe two feet between the elevator and the staircase. I didn’t have time to panic even, just to brace myself as that top step got closer and I shot over it.
    I didn’t instantly fly out of my chair or anything, I bumped violently but held on tight. For a while I thought I’d be okay, I’d just thump on down in my chair then cruise across the floor till I stopped. Another possibility: I might stop half-way down on the landing and have to wait there like it was an ice floe till someone rescued me.
    Neither of those things happened. Just before I got to the landing, I flew out of my chair, I couldn’t hold on. I did a hard somersault where my neck almost snapped before my body flew over top of it. Then I slid down on my back, hit my butt hard and became airborne. I landed with a loud click on my face on the hardwood floor. My glasses broke in half. Then my wheelchair landed on my back.
    I lay there in a pile waiting for my mom to come home and put me together again. I could see the clock on the cable box. An hour passed. Two. Three. I held on as long as I could. Then I shit my pants.
    It got dark. Still no Mom. At six, Dad came home from work. He put his coat on the coat rack, and flicked on the light. When he saw me lying there, he said: “Shit.”
    He was right.

Dandruff

    T he old man has dandruff. When he wheels me