Christopher Locke

Superlatives


​Peter opened his yearbook. He double-checked the faces and reviewed the groups and clubs; what a joke. Those pep rally morons waving their green and white flags; the Debate Club and its tragic wardrobe; the jocks and bubbleheaded cheerleaders who glowed so white they thought it forgave their lies. But in spite of his contempt, the more he searched the more Peter realized he was in none
of the photos. Even his own Junior class portrait was missing—another day lost taking care of Ma. In the back of the yearbook, the four pages designated “Autographs” remained blank except for Mrs. Morgan, his biology teacher, and Mr. Dickle, the dishwasher in the cafeteria. Dickle sold him weed, and Mrs. Morgan always looked at Peter as if she was about to tell him he contracted something terminal. Mrs. Morgan wrote “Good job, Peter. Best of luck next year!” Dickle just scribed “Bang that pussy this summer, bro!”

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Ma’s coughing hammered through the wall, forcing Peter to close the book. He sighed. The coughs had a dry, staccato quality and were employed more as communication than anything else. Peter, Ma said. Peter shut his eyes and counted to ten. Peter, she balled and then let loose with a fresh salvo, her hacks like doll parts run through a band saw. Ma, Peter yelled. Drink your ginger ale! I ran out, she said. I think I spilled it. Peter! I need you! Peter didn’t respond. He folded his arms and sat in the momentary pleasure of her silence. After three years of this, he didn’t mind making her wait, could hear her shifting atop the plastic mattress, the tubes streaking the aluminum rails corralling her thinness. Peter then pictured his mother when she was younger, upright and mobile, running with him at York Beach in Maine—Dad finally gone and both of them free. Peter threw his yearbook on the floor. No, you don’t need me, he said to himself as he swung his feet onto the braided rug. You need Jesus to press both hands down on your goddamn face.

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Better, he asked. Peter held the ginger ale as Ma drank. She didn’t respond, just turned slightly from the straw when she was done. Peter placed the cup on her bedside table. He hated this room, its smell of raw tobacco and that cobwebby hair spray Ma loved so much. Did you do your homework, she asked. Ma, today was the last day of school. Remember? Summer break. I don’t need your smart mouth, she said. I can barely sit up and I hafta listen to you bitch? Peter shifted his weight on her bed. Ma, it’s true. Ma rumpled the blankets and then put her fist to her mouth, coughed. Peter couldn’t remember if Aunt Christie was coming over today or tomorrow. When’s dinner, Ma asked. Peter scanned her dresser lined with prescription bottles and an empty box of tissues. A ceramic frame held an old black and white of his father and mother on their wedding day. They were both smiling down at a tiered cake, knife hovering in protracted glint. Ma snapped her fingers. Hey numb nuts, you there? Peter blinked. Sorry Ma, he said. What did you say?

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Peter was outside during recess the day he learned his father had died. It was 5th grade. April. Peter was playing smear the queer with Bill and Brandon and another kid Peter hated. Peter was laughing, holding the Nerf football under his arm and accusing Bill of cheating when he noticed his mom standing with the principal next to the slide. Peter felt something hot unfurl in his chest when he saw them together like that. Ma came over and said she was taking him home for the day, but that they were going out to Dairy Queen first. Peter was confused, but happy; his mom never bought him ice cream. Before he left, he turned to the other boys and casually flipped them off. Peter felt like the king of the world. As Peter and his mom made their way toward the school building, the principal stopped them both and put his hand on his mom’s shoulder, gripping her in a way that seemed familiar. Call me if you need anything, Louise, he said. Later, as he was finishing his parfait, Peter learned that Dad was stabbed to death in the prison dining hall. He probably owed someone money, Ma Said. Peter remembered how Dad used to beat him, which was usually on a Sunday because Sundays they went to church. After service, Dad would get to feeling guilty about whatever fathers feel guilty about, and off would come the belt. Dad would say things like Peter was inviting demons into the house because his bad behavior. During the worst of it, Ma would go into her bedroom, close the door, and turn up the volume of the T.V. Peter winced as Ma brushed a few wisps of hair off his forehead. Christ, Peter, don’t get chocolate on your shirt, she said. Peter looked down, rubbed his collar with his palm. And then he took another bite of his parfait.

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The rice bubbled in a thin bottomed pot on the stove. Peter laid 6 turkey hotdogs over the rice and placed a cover on top, turning the heat to low. He went outside and took a joint out of his top pocket, lit the tip. Three chickens scuttled past and into the dirt, scratching hieroglyphs in the dust. Stupid birds, Peter said. Peter inhaled deeply and thought about his plans for the summer, though
he knew the only viable one he had was to work 20 hours a week down at the tree farm. Mr. Roberts always threw parttime work his way; he knew Peter’s dad from years ago. Peter spent his time watering saplings, or helping customers get fruit trees into the back of their SUVs. At the end of his shift, he’d listen to the other teenagers talk about their dates for that night, parties they planned on attending or movies they hoped to see at the mall in Portsmouth. Once, as he sat on a bench re-lacing his Timberlands, he heard the pretty girl Schuyler around the corner talking about him as she hosed the dust off her arms. Oh, that kid Peter, she said to some girl he didn’t know, and his heart raced. He’s going home to his mom for another episode of Night of the Living Dead. Both girls laughed. Peter quickly got up and found his BMX by a row of peach trees, waved goodnight to Mr. Roberts, and peddled home.

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Peter heard tires crunching over rocks and small ruts in the driveway. It was Aunt Christie in her beat-up Accord. She pulled up to the barn, got out. Peter took another big hit and blew the smoke up toward the trees. She walked toward him, smiling larger than usual. She had in her bamboo earrings you could see from a mile off, and that mini Tibetan flag she wore as a scarf loose around her neck. Got some for me, she asked, reaching. Peter handed the joint over and observed her through a squinted eye. Isn’t it, like, desecration of a flag to wear it as a piece of clothing, Peter asked. Christie laughed, took a small puff. How’s my sister today, she asked. The same, Peter said. She handed the joint back. You almost done with school or something? Yep. Finished today, Peter said. Nothing but warm summer breezes ahead. Yeah, right, Christie said. I’m about done with your mom’s bullshit, she added. Old battle-axe has taken enough from me. Peter finished the joint, stubbed it out against the door frame. Hey, I got voted most likely to succeed, Peter said. In my yearbook, I mean. Christie snorted. Good one. She patted Peter on the shoulder. I’m going inside, okay? You need help making dinner?

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Aunt Christie and Peter ate their food silently around the small mahogany table in the dining room. Ma, like usual, took her dinner in bed. Peter had no plans for the night but suddenly blurted out There’s a big party happening at the sand pits tonight. End of year kegger or whatnot. I was hoping maybe ...I don’t think I can stay, Christie interrupted. I just wanted to come over and see how your mom was doing. But I thought tonight was your night, Peter said. The sun filled the wooden table like a small campfire. I know, Peter, but now that it’s summer I need to spend more time helping down at the gallery. Tourist season, you know? Right, but you agreed to help, Peter said. It’s your night, he repeated. Peter, I’m sorry. Don’t make this harder than it already is, okay? I’m sure someone at the clinic can help. Did you hear back from the state yet? Peter looked out the window at a row of maples. The leaves were like tiny green fists afraid to open.

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After Aunt Christie left, Peter went to check on Ma. Her plate sat on the bedside table untouched. She was sleeping soundlessly on her side, the rough blanket moving up and down. As Peter stared at her, he remembered the day his father was sentenced, and how after court Peter went home and discovered a small brood of baby moles under a piece of drywall in the field across the street. The
babies were hairless and pink and blind, and he was gentle and carefully built a small nest of grass for them to lie back down in. Peter then searched the grass until he found a cinder block and dropped it on their little bodies. That night, he cried real hard in Ma’s lap and she stroked his hair telling him to hush, that he was the man of the house now and would have to learn to take care of things. Men, she said, don’t cry. Peter blinked the memory away and watched his mom continue sleeping. How are you doing, Ma, he said. How are you...feeling tonight? His mother was too busy dreaming to respond. You know, you should see me, Ma. I’m going to be real busy this summer. Got a good job. Girlfriend. Yep. I’ve got...big plans. Peter smiled, but his cheeks felt wet. He scanned the room. Peter walked slowly to the edge of the bed and lifted a pillow off the floor. He gripped it tightly and stared down at Ma. Peter waited for God to speak, to tell him something—to say that he was forgiven.

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It was now midnight. Peter believed he could get as far as Ogunquit, maybe York Beach if he kept to the back roads until morning. He found a small stack of 20s in Ma’s dresser and stuffed them into his backpack, filled the remaining space with t-shirts and shorts. On top, he placed his yearbook and the photo of his mom and dad with their wedding cake. As he made his way down the road on his dad’s old ten speed, he was relieved to discover the headlight still worked as long as he peddled. Peter decided he would get a job on the boardwalk, maybe hawk fried dough or make change in the arcade. His coworkers would get to know him as kind and soft-spoken. Reliable. And they’d eventually ask where he came from, what brought him to the beach. But he wouldn’t need to get into all that, wouldn’t need to drag up the ghosts from some other life. He would just pull his yearbook out of his pack, pat the cover. Well, it’s all right here, he’d say. Every single word.
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Christopher Locke’s writing has appeared in The North American Review, Poets & Writers, The Rumpus, Another Chicago Magazine, Poetry East, SmokeLong Quarterly, Verse Daily, Southwest Review, Whiskey Island, Rhino, The Sun, West Branch, Rattle, 32 Poems, and The Adirondack Review, among others. He won the 2018 Black River Chapbook Award (Black Lawrence Press) for his collection of short stories 25 TRUMBULLS ROAD and his latest book of poems is MUSIC FOR GHOSTS (NYQ Books—2022). Locke has received the Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Award, state grants from the Massachusetts Cultural Council and the New Hampshire State Council on the Arts, and Poetry Fellowships from Fundacion Valparaiso, (Spain) and PARMA (Mexico). He teaches creative writing at both North Country Community College and Ray Brook Federal Prison in the Adirondacks.