“Sometimes we think about going to the theater, but then we’re like: It’s 80 miles away, let’s just start a fire.” – travel journal entry, day 15

Small Fires

I’m listening to Hunter’s story about a cat’s tail being on fire. I motion for him to lower his voice because we’re on an airplane, and people on airplanes don’t want to hear about fires, but he says he needs to finish telling the story to prove his point. His point, he says, is that our grandfather really wasn’t such a nice man, especially not in his younger years, as his younger self, when he still had all his teeth.

I say: If anybody knew grandpa’s younger self, it’s me.
And Todd, he says.
Damnit, Hunter.
What, sis?
Lower your voice.
Don’t you want to hear about how the cat caught fire? he asks.
Not really.
It’s brutal, he says.
Hunter, for God’s sake.

He pours himself another gin and tonic, using my gin and his tonic. Hunter is nineteen. I try to convince myself that I find him irritating because he’s young, but really I’m irritated because he forces me to act like a grownup.

I’m irritated because being the grownup used to be Todd’s job.

I’m the one holding on to the tickets of our connecting flights, the passports, the hotel and rental car reservations, the money, credit cards, and the map of where our grandfather will be buried – Brewster County, Texas.

A native of Portland, Oregon, grandfather spent most of his life in the small, secluded town of Study Butte, Texas, located 80 miles south of Alpine. Grandpa died right there, on state highway 118, on his way back home. They said they found him in his car, slumped over the steering wheel.

Right next to the car was a road sign that said “Exotic animal hunting”. Our grandfather may have been many things, but he was definitely not an exotic animal.

They found a bullet in his chest right where his wallet should have been, my father said.
Or his heart, I said.
What?
Nothing.

While I study the map, Hunter plays a game of solitaire. Every once in a while, he sneezes. Hunter has allergies, and I also hold on to his medicine. We don’t really know where his allergies come from, or what triggers them, but as it gets colder on the plane, the sneezing gets worse. I pour him a cup of water, give him one of his pills. He downs it quickly, expertly, routinely. He dabs his eyes with a damp cloth and tilts his head back, pinching his nose. I ask the flight attendant for some ice because I know what’s coming.

Hunter catches the blood first in his palm, then in a tissue. The curse words that come out of his mouth are muffled. I put the map down in his lap and reach up to rub the ice against his nose.

He stares down at Brewster County with a sad look that has both everything and nothing to do with our grandfather.

Why is it that every funeral feels like Todd’s funeral all over again? Hunter asks.

I continue to rub the ice around the bridge of his nose like it’s the only thing I know how to do. Then I place my cold fingertips against his left temple, which stops the wail rising up in his throat.

I want to say: Sometimes it seems as if every question I have ever wanted answered has been about Todd.
I say: Tell me about the cat whose tail was on fire.