Trinity (49)

I lock myself in my bedroom when we get home from dinner. Sitting on the floor at the foot of my bed, I close my eyes and turn my music on louder than I usually have it. But not loud enough to be heard by anyone but me; I don’t want to damage my hearing.

I try not to think about anything at all.

I wonder what Pearl’s doing right now.

Eventually, my dad shouts through the closed door that it’s time for dessert, and I stand and pull back my blinds to find that it’s dark out. Easter’s almost over. Which means that it’s almost Easter Monday.

Downstairs, my mom’s cutting a cake that’s iced to look like a garden with a rabbit and eggs in it. The four of us eat, most of the talking done by the actors on the TV in the corner of the kitchen.

After a while, my dad becomes absorbed in the newspaper’s crossword, and my mom starts washing dishes. Rory stands and wanders towards the front of the house. The front door opens and shuts.

My dad looks up after him and squints, as if he can see through walls. “Trinity, can you go see if your brother is smoking out there? If he is, first tell him that it’s bad for his health. Then tell him if he’s going to do it anyway, he’s got to stand further away from the house. The smell lingers.”

My mom glances at him with a sigh. “You don’t have to do that, Trinity. David, just let it go, he’s only here for a few more days.”

“Every time I walk in the house, I can smell it out there!” Dad says back, defensive.

I stand, and my chair squeals against the kitchen floor. “I’ll do it,” I say as Mom counters back, “I don’t want him to feel like he’s getting constantly scolded while he’s here.”

Dad’s gone back to filling in his crossword, but he shakes his head. I leave the kitchen before I hear what he says, and go out to the front porch.

Rory’s leaning on the banister, a smoking cigarette between his fingers. He jumps a little when he hears the front door, but tries to play it off when he realizes it’s me.

“Ah, little sister,” he greets me, putting the cigarette between his lips.

It’s not too cold out, surprisingly, but I tuck into myself anyway, folding my arms and hunching my shoulders a little. I think about relaying Dad’s message to him, but don’t find the energy.

Rory takes a drag, then holds the cigarette in my direction. “Wanna try?”

“Ew, no.”

He laughs sharply. “You passed the test! You are the real Trinity.”

I stand next to him at the banister, as far as I can to avoid the smoke, and stare across the street. “What makes you think I wouldn’t be?” I reply. I know full well he’s only trying to make a joke, but I still feel annoyed.

He studies the house across the street with me. “You’re really crabby today, you know that?” He blows another trail of smoke out of his mouth, but at least he has the decency to direct it in the opposite direction as me.

When I don’t say anything, he turns towards me, arms raised. “What? You’re not thrilled that the Lord has risen?” His tone is almost mocking, and it reminds me of something Pearl would say.

“When’s the last time you’ve even been to church?” I find myself asking.

He scoffs. “Whew. You sound just like Mom. Last time I was home, probably.”

I scratch a nail against the railing of the porch, and a thin piece of paint comes off. “I don’t blame you,” I end up saying quietly.

Rory doesn’t react. A minute or so passes before he says, “Did I make you mad? At dinner?”

I glance at him, and he’s studying me. I frown and bristle a little. “No.”

“So that’s a yes,” he says, tossing his cigarette on the ground and stepping on it.

We both stare at the cigarette butt, and he continues. “You know I was only teasing. Mom, too. I don’t really care about Tommy or whatever his name is.”

“Kelly.”

He looks at me with a laugh. “Oh! A girl. I see, it all makes sense now,” he sounds amused, and I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not, but I can feel my face turn hot.

“That’s not--”

“Did I ever tell you--of course I didn’t--but the girl I dated for three months in eleventh grade was actually a lesbian? And that was my longest relationship at the time, too.” He shakes his head. “God, what an embarrassment.”

I don’t take my eyes off of the remains of his cigarette. Dad’s going to be angry when he finds it here on the porch.

“That’s supposed to be a funny story,” he tells me. I can tell he must be frowning at me. “Jeez, I need another cig.”

“Dad’s mad about your smoking.”

“Dad’s mad about your lesbianism."

I stomp my foot. Like a child. “Stop saying that!”

Rory stills, and I make the mistake of looking him in the eye. “Shoot. You’re not really…”

I huff in agitation. “No!” My voice is raised, and I don’t intend it to be, but I’m nearly shouting. “I’m not anything; I’m nothing!” I turn my face away from him.

He doesn’t say a word, and I’m not surprised. I never raise my voice, not since I was a little kid. And even then I was always more likely to cry than yell.

I hear him sigh, and I’m stupidly trying not to let any tears well up in my eyes. What an idiot I am.

“Hey, it’s a joke. I don’t care what you are.” A thick silence spans between us, and I try to gain control of my breathing. Then Rory breaks it, saying, “Come here.”

He steps off the porch, down to the driveway, and pulls car keys out of his pocket. I follow wearily, staying at foot of the porch as he pops our car’s trunk.

“I was going to give it to you earlier, but I kinda forgot about it.” I can’t really see what he’s pulling out of the trunk, we’re too far away from the porch light and the sky is too dim. It’s just a bulky shape in his arms.

“No way,” I murmur as he approaches. It’s a record player, one of those old-timey ones with the big horn. Gramophones, is that what they’re called?

He hefts it in his arms as we return to the light of the porch, and he sets it down on one of the porch chairs.

“Where did this come from?” I ask, stepping around him to get a good look. I examine the record player from multiple angles, swiping a finger across the surface to check if it’s dusty. Or maybe to check if it’s real; Rory and I don’t get each other presents. I determine that it is both dusty and real.

He tucks his hands into his pockets. “It was Desirae’s parents’, but they couldn’t bring it with them when they moved out to Cali. But we don’t really need it in the house, it’s just taking up room.”

“Does it work?” I ask, possibly too eagerly.

“Oh yeah.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of the car. “I’ve got a box of their records, too. All antiques. Mostly R&B, but I figured you could buy whatever it is you like to listen to.”

I draw away from the record player suddenly and search his face. “Why are you giving it to me?”

He scoffs. “Because I don’t want it and you like music? This isn’t a trap. Or a bribe.”

“Hm,” I reply, but this time I’m smiling.

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(first part: https://theprose.com/post/432343/trinity)

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(previous part: https://theprose.com/post/463780/trinity-48)

(next part: https://theprose.com/post/464937/trinity-50)