Crazy for the Storm: A Memoir of Survival

As I turned he grabbed my arm and his fingers dug into my bone.

Ouch! I said. You’re hurting me.

Damn fucking right. Now answer the question.

What’s the question?

Why do you of all people need to be watching the downfall of the president of the United States?

I already watched it a couple years ago, I said.

Well you need to watch it again. Do you know why?

No, I said.

Did you hear that, Jan? I bet you don’t know why either.

My mom was putting away the chicken. She walked under the archway between the kitchen and the living room and stopped.

Don’t know what? she said.

Pay fucking attention. That’s the problem. You never pay attention.

My mom put a hand on her hip and looked at Nick. She lifted her eyebrows and sighed. His fingers bore deeper into my bone and the pain made me cry out.

Let go of him, said my mom.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But you know why I can’t? he said, seemingly to both of us.

Why? she said, rolling her eyes.

Because if I let him go now he’ll end up like Nixon.

Oh come on, said my mom. What the hell are you going on about?

He’s a liar!

I didn’t see him skateboarding, she said. Did you?

So you believe him?

She looked at me and I tried to warn her with my eyes but I was still cringing from the pain in my arm.

Yes, she said.

Nick ripped down my pants and the waistline tore the scab and fresh blood percolated to the surface of my wound.

What about this? said Nick, pointing at my raspberry.

Oh God, said my mom. Where did you get that?

I wanted to be on her side. I wanted her to win.

I got it when I slipped in the canyon, I said.

Bullshit, said Nick. Look at the blacktop around the edges.

That’s dirt, I said.

Nick rubbed his fingers over the black smudges. Ouch, I said.

Stop that, Nick, said my mom.

He held up his fingers.

It ain’t dirt.

Yes it is, I said.

Nick pointed at the TV. You sound just like Nixon, he said. It comes so naturally.

I recalled Nixon’s voice, cracked and high-pitched during his Checkers speech. Nixon had a fake smile. A warped frown. No one on the beach liked him. My dad grunted and cast him off with the wave of his hand—not even worth talking about.

Then Nick let go of my arm and I ran into the kitchen.

Come back here, he yelled.

Leave him alone, said my mom.

Get your ass back here, said Nick.

I ducked into the bathroom and peed into the toilet. I heard Nick arguing with my mom about me forgetting to take out the trash cans again, for the second week in a row. It was proof, he said, that Norman believes the world revolves around him.

I came out of the bathroom and my mom was face to face with Nick.

You’re overreacting, she said to his perspiring face.

Horseshit, he said and marched past her and into the bathroom and I knew I was busted before he even said it.

He forgot to flush the goddamn toilet again, barked Nick. This is at least the tenth time, Jan.

Nick stepped out of the bathroom and called me over. You need to clean the toilet bowl. That’s the only way you’re going to learn.

My mom stepped between him and me.

Get the fuck out of the way, said Nick, his eyes cutting hard down at my mom. She shook her head, making a stand.

Nick might do any crazy thing, I thought. He had broken our neighbor Wheeler’s ribs one night in our kitchen after a heated political debate.