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That day in July, that day Heath beat the game non-warp, my mom’s niece was coming with her husband. I call her my mom’s niece because she never felt like my “cousin.”
She was a tall girl. She always had some perm or another. She loved Michael Jackson. I wonder what she thinks of him now?
She got married fresh out of high school, and she’d been married for two years when she showed up in my basement that morning. Her husband sold tractors for John Deere just south of Philadelphia. They’re pretty well-off these days. I don’t hear much about my mom’s niece anymore, just that she’s addicted to internet chat rooms and she never lost the weight from her second pregnancy.
She has two children. Girls. They’re in middle school now, I gather.
I have her screen name on my AOL Instant Messenger buddy list. I’ve never talked to her, not once.
I was between grades in elementary school that rainy summer day Heath beat Mario 3 non-warp in my basement.
My mom’s niece came downstairs to deposit her suitcase. She’d flown halfway across the country to sleep in her favorite aunt’s basement, on a sofa-bed, with her new husband.
Some people have the strangest definition of the word “vacation.”
Heath and Roy were playing the battle mode of Mario 3 when my mom’s favorite niece came downstairs. Heath was so basking in the post-non-warp bliss, he was smiling and laughing with a kid two-thirds his age. Roy was mad, because Heath kept winning.
“Retard!” Roy kept calling Heath.
“Retard!” Heath called Roy, again and again.
“Boys and their toys,” my mom’s favorite niece said, putting down her suitcase.
Roy and Heath were quiet all of a sudden. All three of us looked up at my mom’s favorite niece. In the hand that wasn’t holding the suitcase, she was holding my little brother Clint. He was skinny when he was two. He’s on the freshmen football team in high school, now. I think he’s a linebacker. I don’t really know.
No matter how heavy he was, my mom’s favorite niece put him down.
“Mar-mar,” Clint said, pointing at the screen. He had a speech problem until he was five.
Heath’s Mario was free to roam the World One map as Roy’s lay in wait on the cleared 1-1 panel. All was silent in the basement.
“Honey?” my mom’s favorite niece called toward the ceiling. She was looking through her suitcase.
“Yeah?” her husband called, through the floor. He was upstairs watching a baseball game with my dad. They were probably drinking beer. I never really talked with her husband; all I know is that he’s an all-around agreeable guy.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Watching baseball with Buck.” My dad’s nickname, even today, is Buck.
My mom’s favorite niece sighed. She went upstairs, I gathered, to get her husband’s suitcase. She was going to come back, at some point. Not one of us knew when.
“I’ve gotta go,” Heath said, a second later, looking at his calculator watch.
“See you,” Roy said. And Heath was gone.
Roy was left holding the controller. Clint was looking at the television, repeating, “Mar-mar, mar-mar, mar-mar.”
“I’m gonna go watch baseball,” Roy said, standing up. And Roy was gone.
Clint and I were alone in the basement for ten minutes before I picked up Heath’s controller. As I was moving from the “Start” panel, Clint picked up Roy’s controller, and pressed the “A” button. The battle game began.
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