I should probably tell you that my mother died about a month ago. Her funeral is here, in Muncie, later today. My dad grew up in Indiana, so that's where we grew up. And let me tell you something about Indiana, all those things you hear about the Hoosiers loving their basketball, it's all true. Every bit of it. And I should know because my dad was the head coach of the men's basketball team at Ball State University from '74 to '86. I mean, he was no Bobby Knight, but he did leave his career with a winning record. You may have heard of him, his name was Dan Johnson.

I guess I should also tell you he died when I was thirteen. Heart attack. He dropped dead right on the freaking sideline during a game. I can still remember it plain as day. Every home game, my mom, my younger brother, and I would sit in the front row, right behind the bench. I loved to watch my father orchestrate his team. He loved basketball.

This was a pre-season game against Eastern Michigan and my dad's team, the Cardinals, were down three points with four seconds left on the game clock. The Cardinals had stolen possession of the ball and were driving down the court. My dad was following them on the sideline, screaming for Paul Roland, the point guard, to pass it to this guy Charlie Porter who managed to find himself alone at the three point line down in the corner. Porter was the go-to-guy in '86.

Well, he got the pass all right, but as he turned to make the three, my father dropped dead. Right there in front of him. Poor old Charlie never got to take the shot.

My little brother asked my mom why daddy was laying down. I knew he was dead.

And now I find myself in my old bed in my parents' house with a girl from Cardinals Bar sleeping next to me. I haven't been in this house for over ten years. It hasn't changed a bit. It's a shrine to my father: trophies, pictures, twelve basketballs on twelve little bronze stands with the signature of every player from that year's team scrawled across them. One for every year he coached. You'd know some of the names, I'm sure.

The one from 1986 doesn't have Charlie Porter's signature on it. Believe me, I've checked.

I'm debating whether or not to wake up Cindy. She really is pretty. Her nose is straight as an arrow. And thin too, with little slits for nostrils. I watch them flare as she breathes in and out. I just met her last night.

"So, tell me. Why do they call you Flash Johnson?" She leans back in the tall booth. The band is droning on in the background. It's some kind of Velvet Underground cover band. She cocks her head to the side, "So . . . are you going to talk or what?"

I sit there, staring through my sunglasses at the smoke filling the bar. Thumbing my pint glass, I look across the room to the stage and pretend to listen to the band.

"Hello? I asked you a question. Are you there?" Without moving, I switch my eyes over to her. She's cute. She has one of those round pale faces that looks too young to be attached to her tall, skinny body. She has no chest whatsoever, but as she was sitting down, I noticed that she has the most perfect ass I think I've ever seen. She's wearing these jeans that must have gone out of style about fifteen years ago and has on a pair of those white leather sneakers. I bet you ten to one she's a nurse.

"You know, I like the silent type, but this is a little much. Are you here with anyone?" She props her pointy elbows on the table and leans towards me, trying to see my eyes. "I really like your sunglasses. Raybans, even. Where'd you get them?" I smile and lean back.

"Fine, you don't have to tell me. But I'm not going anywhere until you at least ask me my name." The band starts to play I'm Waiting for the Man. She lights a cigarette and leans back too. "Don't you want to know how I knew your name?"

I sit forward.

"Flash Johnson. That's silly. That can't be your real name. Who would name their kid Flash?" She exhales a long stream of smoke. "I mean, unless maybe your parents are hardcore Flash Gordon fans." She cracked herself up. "Is that it, Mr. Johnson? Are your parents' big time Flash Gordon fans?" She was beaming, like she was the first to think of it. "You ever hear that song by Queen?" She starts singing, "Flash! Ah--ahhhh . . . savior of the universe!"

I snort, blowing ashes all over the place. Shaking my head, I slide the ashtray to her side of the table and rest my head in my hands.

"Are you the savior of the universe, Mr. Johnson?" She plants her elbows back on the sticky table and puts her face right in mine. "How come I've never seen you around here before? How come everybody knows your name? Do you know Clint, the bouncer?"

I can smell her breath, cigarettes and bubblegum. "Well, he's the one that told me your name. I asked him who you were as soon as I came in. I said, who is that dork wearing aviator sunglasses and a raggedy black t-shirt?" She giggles. "Ok, I didn't say dork, but he told me that your name was Flash Johnson and that you are just in town for the weekend. Is that true?"

I sit back and drain my glass.

"Is that empty? Let me get you another one. Maybe that will warm you up. What are you drinking?" She pulls the empty glass to her nose and winces back, "Jesus, was that straight Jack? You're crazy!"

As she gets up to go to the bar, I watch her ass in those antique jeans fade into the darkness. I have to peer out over my glasses to watch as she leans into the bar. She straightens her legs and arches her back while she talks to the bartender, looking back at me. Her ass looks like an acid washed moon just hanging there.

I look back over to the band, now playing Sweet Jane. The girl singer really sounds like Nico, kind of looks like her too, kind of tall and stringy. The guy singing sounds more like Bob Dylan than anything else though. The drummer seems to be looking right at me, like he knows me or something.

She slides my glass across table and plops back down on the bench opposite me. "Ok, well my name is Cindy. I grew up here. The bartender told me you did too." She's staring at me now, a little annoyed.

I'm still looking at the Nico doppelganger on the stage, trying like hell to avoid the drummer and the girl across from me. "He said you two grew up together. I know he's not lying because he didn't charge me for your drink and he never gives away shit for free. He told me you're here for your mom's funeral."

I drop my grin and look into her eyes. They are jet black. "The bartender also told me that you can talk just fine. So why won't you talk to me?"

I look at her burning cigarette. "Want to go to a funeral tomorrow, Cindy?"

I can hear the birds outside from my old bed. I slide up next to her, brush her dark hair from her pale face and kiss the tip of her pointy nose.

She moans a little. "What time is it?"

"Nine."

"Mmm." Her eyes catch up to her mouth. They really are black. They look too deep. I can see my reflection in them. She blinks. "What time did we get here last night?"

"Not too long after last call."

"Oh. How did we get here?"

"You don't remember?"

She presses up next to me. "My head hurts. Got any water?" She smells so clean.

"I think the sink works."

"What a gentleman." She kisses my chest. "What time is the funeral?"

I close my eyes. "Noon." I kiss her forehead. "You still want me to go?"

"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't." I trace the smooth curve of her hip with the tips of my fingers.

She gently starts to scratch the length of my back. "Kiss my forehead again, Mr Johnson."

A while later, Cindy is staring out of my bedroom window overlooking the campus. "I can't believe this is your house! Do you know how many times I've walked past this place?"

"No."

"Millions!" She's still looking out the window, her naked frame looking funny contrasted with the bright sun filtering in. She has this little omega tattoo on her lower back. Her ass looks even better out of those silly jeans. "The robins are back!" She wraps her long arms around herself. They almost touch each other. "I love it when they come back."

I look at her and smile a little. She turns to me, "I told you I grew up in Muncie, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, my mother is a nurse in the campus infirmary and we live about three blocks . . . " she looks around the room, "that way." She's pointing at my old Doors poster.

"Wow."

She rolls her eyes, "Yes, wow! I always wondered who lived here. Isn't it owned by the university or something?"

"Yeah. They felt bad when my dad died so they let my mom stay here."

Looking around the room, she scratches at her sides. "That's nice of them."

"I guess. Always felt like I was growing up in a parsonage though."

She starts to put on her jeans. "What's a parsonage?"

"Never mind." I roll out of bed and head to the bathroom. Fortunately, the university hasn't shut the water off yet, though it smells like sulphur because it hasn't been used for so long. From what I've heard, they didn't find my mom's body right away.

I let the water warm up and run until the smell is gone and step into the shower.

Cindy knocks on the door, "Hey, Flash?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to run home and get ready for the funeral. What should I wear?"

"Anything but those jeans."

"Ha ha. Seriously, what are you going to wear?"

"What I was wearing last night." I could hear her sigh through the door.

"Flash, you can't wear dirty jeans and a t-shirt to your mother's funeral."

"It's all I have."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well, you know what? You're about the same size as my step-father and he's got tons of suits. I'll grab you a black one and you can wear your t-shirt under it, ok?"

"Sure."

"Ok, I'll be back in about an hour."

"All right." I could hear her start towards the staircase and stop.

"Hey Flash?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry about your mom."

"Yeah."

The suit fits like a glove but Cindy is walking around me in circles tugging and pulling.

She looks good. She has on this long black dress that has a real low cut in the back. She looks like she's ready for the Oscars or something. I guess my mom would be proud.

"You look good all cleaned up, Flash." She's still tugging and pulling.

"You too."

She stops, "You really think so?" Her voice is high pitched all of a sudden.

I look at the clock. "Yeah. Let's go."

"Ok, which church is it at?"

"St. Francis on Riverside, I guess."

"Oh yeah, I know that one. We can walk."

The walk feels nice. Things are becoming green again. The red breast feathers of the robins stand out in the budding trees. I like when they come back too. I'm glad that Cindy is next to me. But, to be honest, I'm really not too sure why in the hell she's here. I'm trying not to think about it. I can say that I'm glad I'm wearing a suit. I'm positive my little brother will be here. He probably flew into Indianapolis this morning and I know he's going to tell me something like he had to cancel a bunch of important shit and barely caught the red eye in from LA. We really don't talk much anymore.

"Flash?" She sounds high pitched again.

"What?"

"Do you think it's weird that I'm coming with you to your mom's funeral since we just met last night?"

"No, not really."

"Oh."

I can tell she's a little hurt. "Actually, Cindy, yes, I am."

"Well, I have to tell you something." She slows her pace. "I knew who you were before Clint told me your name at the bar." She was looking at me with those black eyes, "I was eight when you left Muncie. I know about your family."

"Yeah?"

She slides her arm through mine as we round the corner to the church, "Are you mad?"

"No. Why?"

"Well, like this morning, in your bedroom, I knew what house I was in. I knew we walked home from the bar and I know your. . . ."

"Relax, we're here."

My brother is standing in front of the church, smoking a cigarette. He definitely looks like he's been living in LA for the past eight years. His hair is all slicked back and his forehead is greasy.

Cindy and I are about twenty feet away when he spots us. He tosses his cigarette on the ground like I'm going to yell at him or something and starts speeding towards us.

He hugs me without saying a word. He smells like he must have flown in a bottle of cologne. "How have you been, Flash?"

"Not bad, you?"

"Kicking ass and taking names, buddy. Had to cancel a few meetings to get here, but my secretary was able to squeeze me onto the redeye this morning. Fly out right after the burial, big guy. Way of the world, Flash, way of the world." He slaps me arm and takes a couple steps back, looking at Cindy. "Well, well. . . ."

Cindy turns red. "Hi Toby."

I don't even want to know. "Well good, I see you two know each other. Toby, have you heard anything about pall bearers?"

He waits a second, staring at Cindy through his sunglasses. "Yeah, I guess a bunch of the guys from the basketball team are going to carry her out and," he drops his voice, "put the rock in the hole, as the old man would to say!" He can't help but grin as he looks back to me.

"Nice analogy, douche bag. You here alone?"

"Yeah, too much of a hassle to drag a woman out of LA." He runs his hand over his shiny hair. "I see you managed to find a scrap on your way to the church though."

Cindy moves close to my side.

"Toby, why don't you go sit down. We'll talk after the funeral."

Shrugging his shoulders, Toby turns on one heel and heads towards the church. A crowd of really tall black guys shake his hand as he passes by. He hands the tallest one a card. Cindy lights a cigarette and looks like she's about to say something.

I grab the cigarette out her of hand and stomp it out. "Listen, let's just go in and we'll straighten all of this out later. You look beautiful. Thank you for the suit. I don't care about your history right now. I'm glad we met. Let's just go in the church, ok?"

She looks like I just punched her in the gut. She grabs my hand, leading me past the forest of pall bearers and into the church.

Walking past the crowd, it's easy to see the difference between the professors and geriatric basketball junkies. There's a plentiful supply of both. It's a massive mesh of tweed and sweatpants.

The organ bounces out some sad chords as Cindy and I take a seat in the empty front row. I look over at Toby and notice we're wearing the same sunglasses.

It's a strange atmosphere in here. Catholic churches are so goddamn graphic. I feel guilty just looking at the stained glass windows in a place like this. The red oak pews have the little kneel-bars that fold out so you can bow down. That confession box over in the corner with those little curtains has scared the shit out of me since I was a little kid.

I think the only people that actually know my mother here right now are me and Toby, and that really isn't saying much.

Growing up, I never realized how strange my upbringing was. I mean, my father named me to become a famous basketball star if that tells you anything. Flash Johnson. Imagine growing up with that name. My mother always hated it.

The priest is rambling on about all the people my mom and "the coach" touched. Really, all he's talking about is my dad: "Dan and Belinda Johnson were a respected couple in the Muncie community. Dan Johnson was a pillar of the Ball State basketball team for twelve sturdy years and his ability to encourage and motivate the players was unmatched. His passion for the game was immeasurable; his sacrifice quintessential to his life, and now, it is a higher power that brings Belinda back to the arms of Coach Johnson and the Lord, Jesus Christ, our savior. Amen."

Amen indeed. Christ, poor Mom. My dad this, my dad that, and, oh yeah, my mom too.

As we finish up the Lord's Prayer, somebody's cell phone starts playing this electronic version of The Commodores' Brick House. It's echoing through the entire church and people start giggling.

I can't even keep myself from laughing. The person is refusing to shut it off and the lyrics start running through my head. She's a brick . . . house, she's mighty mighty just lettin' it all hang out.

Cindy is racking with quenched laughter, her head down, gasping for air.

The black forest behind us is shaking.

The phone is still ringing.

She's a brick . . . house, the lady's stacked and that's a fact, ain't holding nothing back.

Toby leaps up and spins at the crowd, "Goddamn it, turn that fucking phone off!! This is my mother's fucking funeral!" His face is beet red.

Ever since he was a little kid, I knew when he was about to cry. He'd scream and tell you to go and fuck yourself, then the tears would start like rain.

"Jesus, Toby, settle down." We're standing in the church basement. The service is still going on upstairs.

He can barely speak between gasps. "Fucking . . . she's a brick house, Flash . . . And you sit there laughing?"

"It was funny."

"Mom rotting is funny?"

"No. That's not what I mean, Toby. You know what I mean."

Cindy is standing in the doorway leading to the stairs. Her black eyes shine in the dim light.

Toby glances at her and back to me, "I just can't help but feel bad, Flash."

"I know." And I do know.

"I just keep picturing mom sitting there, sitting in the kitchen. They still don't know how long she was there, Flash." He's still crying, tears spilling out from under his aviators.

"I know."

"She died alone, Flash."

"I know."

There was nothing to say really. She did die alone, surrounded by all of dad's basketballs. But I can't feel bad. I mean, she lived alone when Toby and I were still living at home. When dad died, she stopped caring. And I'm sure you've heard the story before, so I'll spare you the sad pathetic details of growing up feeling abandoned and unwanted. I'll spare you the stories of coming home to my mom's half-dead body hanging out of the stove, the house reeking like gas. I'll spare you the details of how she never called us by our names after he died or how she had our dog put to sleep because he reminded her too of much him. I know you've heard all this kind of stuff before. I'll spare you.

Toby is pulling himself together. He turns towards Cindy again, "So, where in the hell did you find this one?"

Cindy shuffles her feet.

"Actually, she found me."

"I bet she did, Flash, I bet she did." He wipes his face clean. He's tan. "How've you been Cindy?" He pulls out a cigarette, "What's it been, eight, nine years?"

"I guess." Her voice sounds hollow.

"Hate to break up the reunion, but we should get back upstairs. Try to control yourself up there, Toby." I slap the cigarette out of his hand and walk up to Cindy. I bend down and kiss her soft bubblegum lips. "Let's go upstairs."

Toby lights another cigarette, "I'm not going back up there with those assholes."

The service is almost over when Cindy and I get back to the sanctuary. We get there just in time to watch the black giants carry out mom's mahogany coffin. We fall in line and follow them out to the hearse.

Come to find out, the university has rented a limo to drive us to the cemetery. I'm not surprised, really. The university took care of everything. I'm not even sure what dress she's being buried in, or if she's even wearing a dress. It was closed casket. I guess the undertaker couldn't do anything to cover up the decay. I'm not curious. If there were any kind of calling hours, I'm sure Toby would have looked.

As we're pulling out, he comes running up to the limo and hops in. "You guys trying to ditch me?"

"Yes." I'm not lying, but he laughs anyway.

"Goddamn, is there anything to drink in this shit bucket?" Cindy flips open a little panel under the TV and reveals a bottle of Jack, a bottle of Stoli vodka, mixers, and a full ice bucket.

We all smile.

On the way, we drive right through the middle of the campus. We pass the house. The streets are lined with students on their way to class. Backpacks and glasses all bouncing along in red sweatshirts and baggy pants. They look at the hearse and stare at the limo.

By the time we get to the cemetery, the three of us are half-drunk. It was a twenty minute drive.

I guess I should say that Cindy and I are half-drunk. Toby is completely hammered. I'm not too sure how he did it so fast. He was always a lightweight.

We pull up to the cemetery. The ground is squishy, like we're walking on a giant sponge. Little green shoots are poking through the yellow matt of last year's grass. The crowd of tweed and sweatpants are milled around the hole, listening to the priest give his ashes to ashes spiel.

Cindy leans into me. Toby starts to mumble. I knock against him a little to shut him up and he almost falls on the ground.

"Goddamn it!" He staggers back and sticks his manicured finger in my face. "You did that on purpose, you asshole!" He's slurring drastically.

Under my breath, I grit my teeth. "Toby, just relax and let's get mom in the ground."

He starts laughing obnoxiously loud. "Yeah! Let's put the rock in the hole, Flash ol' buddy, ol' boy! Just like dad used to say! Put the rock in the hole!!"

The priest raises his voice and starts preaching super fast. The crowd starts buzzing.

"Put the rock in the hole!!"

The robins seem like they're screaming.

"Put the rock in the fucking hole!!!" Toby is jumping up and down now.

Cindy grabs my arm. Well, she tries to grab my arm. I punch Toby in the chest as hard as I can. I feel all the air leave his body as he crumples to the ground.

Cindy falls back a couple steps.

The crowd stops buzzing and the priest is staring at Toby squishing around in the grass.

All I can hear is robins.

The limo is kind enough to drive us to the Indianapolis airport so Toby can catch his flight. Luckily, he's not talking. He's too busy sulking.

Cindy starts fiddling with the radio and finds a station that you'd hear at a bank or something. You know, the best hits of the '80's, 90's, and today type of shit. I'm sure it's called the Buzz or the Point or the River.

The song playing was really popular about ten years ago when I was living in New York. I'm sure you'd know it if you heard it. I think it's Ace Of Bass or something like that.

Toby is moving around, moaning a little. "I hate this song."

Cindy and I stare at him.

"What are we going to do about the house?" He's still slurring a little bit.

"I don't know. It'll probably go back to the school."

"What about all the stuff?"

"School can have that too."

"What about dad's stuff?"

"You want it?"

"I don't have time to deal with that kind of shit."

"Don't worry about it, Toby, I'll deal with it."

"Yeah, it's not like you have any pressing issues, right?" He tries to laugh but he reaches for his chest and grimaces instead.

It's hard not to laugh at him.

Cindy looks down at the black carpet.

The radio plays a Shania Twain song.

"We're here." And we are, thank God. Right at the United drop-off. "Talk to you later, Tobe."

"Yeah, great seeing you again, Flash. Really. I mean, Christ, I'll call you." He can't even look at me. "Cindy, look out for this one, he's a wild man." His suit is all splotchy with water and dried bits of yellow grass as he stumbles towards the concourse.

The exit signs are flying by as Cindy and I head back to Muncie. She's looking out the window. "I dated your brother in high school for a couple months."

"Yeah?" I hand her a glass of Stoli on the rocks.

She takes a sip. "Yeah." She takes another sip. "We had sex twice." The hum of the limo tries to drown her out.

"Is that right?" I pour myself another.

"I just thought you should know is all."

"It's in the past." I turn the radio up, still on the same station. I leave it. Now it's playing Rain Down in Africa by Toto.

"I love this song." Cindy starts swaying to the beat.

I sip my Jack and listen to the ice dance against the glass.

Everyday since the funeral, people have sent flowers to the house. They must know I'm still here or something. I haven't heard anything from the school about moving out, but I know that I'm pushing it by staying here for a week and a half without getting in touch with them.

Turns out, Cindy is a nurse. White leather shoes never lie. She works the night shift four days a week in the ER at the Ball Memorial Hospital. She's there right now.

I keep finding myself sitting in the kitchen with all the lights off. Whenever I get flowers, I put them in here. Right now, its pitch black. I sit here and smell them in the darkness. They smell purple, if that makes any sense.

I did manage to find out that my mother was sitting here for a little more than three weeks before anybody noticed. A security guard told me the other night when I was walking around the back yard.

I was looking for a time-capsule me and Toby buried before dad even died. I couldn't find it.

Toby put in a poem about me.

I put in a mini Pacers basketball, signed by Chuck "The Rifleman" Person.

Cindy let me keep the suit and I've been wearing it everyday. It makes me feel like I'm on the verge of doing something important, like all I need is a briefcase.

She's been here whenever she's not at work. She made spaghetti and meatballs the other night before she had to go to work and cleaned the dishes without a sideways glance. She's mentioned a couple times that she wants me to meet her mom.

I've been talking to her a little more. I told her that I'd been working as a prep cook at a Legal Sea Foods Restaurant in Boston before I came here. I told her that the university somehow had my new address and had sent me a certified letter about my mom's death. I told her about my roommate, Etta, who was the night manager in the restaurant I worked at and that she wanted me to move out anyway. I didn't tell her why.

She told me that she saw my father die when she was three years old. She told me that it's her first childhood memory and that's why she's always felt a connection to me. She told me that she remembers me sitting there, watching my father flop around the floor while Charlie Porter stood over him holding the basketball, the game clock buzzing.

I didn't remember that he was flopping around until she mentioned it. He didn't die right away. We all watched. The whole arena sat there and watched my father die. She sat there watching me watch my father die.

During the days, I've been listening to my old record collection and wandering around the house. I've been looking in all the drawers and closets. I've been opening envelopes and boxes. Cindy has been helping me a little bit here and there. Mostly she's just been asking a lot of questions. I don't mind too much, really.

It has to be around four in the morning. The room is thick with flowers. It smells like Easter or something. According to the security guard from the other night, I'm sitting right where my mother was found. He was young and excited to tell me details. I was relieved to find someone besides Cindy who would actually approach me.

So, whenever Cindy's at work, I sit here in the kitchen with the lights off, smelling the flowers and thinking. Thinking about my mom. My dad. About leaving Toby. The audience at the funeral. Thinking about all the shit I've been looking through during the days. The scraps of paper from twenty years ago with my dad's chicken scratch about how to force the rebound in a zone defense, pictures of birthday parties, all my brother's poems, all the doodles my mom would draw while she was on the phone, when she still did talk on the phone.

I haven't been sleeping much. Cindy keeps saying I look tired. She doesn't press it though. She should be here in about an hour or so and I think I'm going to cook her breakfast.

That's about all I can cook. I know how to make bacon just right, nice and crispy without being burnt. I can make the perfect over-medium fried eggs too. Nice runny yolks with no slimy white shit, guaranteed. There are eggs in the fridge, but I don't really trust them. They could have killed my mom for all I know.

I haven't been in this supermarket for over ten years. I am amazed people are still allowed to smoke in here. It's this dumpy little 24 hour hole in the wall filled thick with college kids and bums trying to stay warm. It's amazing the amount of recall I have. I remember right where the garbage bags are. I know right where the eggs, cheese, bread, bacon and butter are too. I walk up to an obvious college kid who's standing next to the coffee. One look at me drops the color from his face. He knows me.

I'm Muncie legend. I smile and give him a nod.

He's looking at me like I'm some kind of a ghost.

"Hi."

He looks at me.

"I'm Flash Johnson."

His face relaxes a bit. "I know."

I want to tell him that both of my parents are dead. Instead I just walk away. Besides, he all ready knows.

As I'm slowly frying the bacon, Cindy knocks on the back door before coming in. She does this every time. "Mmm, is that bacon? You're cooking? What's the occasion?"

"Nothing. Kick off your sneakers and have a seat."

"Don't mind if I do. These flowers are so beautiful, Flash."

"How was work?"

"Crazy."

"Anything good?"

"A couple overdoses and a nasty accident that happened up on Jackson. I guess a semi was turning into Fort Steel with a couple of those really big I-beams sticking out the back and a local in a pick-up ran right into them. Decapitated the driver and crushed the passenger's chest. I the guess EMT had to peel the driver's head off the end of the I-beam."

"Damn. You see the body of the decapitated one?"

"No, they brought him straight to the morgue."

"Hmm. Too bad."

"Yeah, I was kind of curious."

"You like coffee?"

"Yeah."

"Cream or sugar?"

"Both if you have it. Did you go shopping?"

"Yeah, needed to get out of the house for a bit." I hand her coffee and she smiles at me.

Her eyes hold me for a second.

Before the eggs are done, I put on The Cars album Shake It Up. We sit there and eat, listening to Rick Ocasek sing about thinking it over. Everything tastes so good. All the flowers make it look like we're in the middle of a garden or something.

After we eat, I clean the dishes as she picks out the dead flowers from the bouquets around the room. People have been sending crazy flowers. Exotic ones I've never even heard of. Someone must have at least known my mom a little bit. She's always loved crazy flowers.

Cindy takes all the dead ones and lays them on the wicker carpet in the screen room. Later in the morning, we end up in my bedroom and eventually fall asleep.

There's a knock at the door. It's dark out. Cindy and I must have been asleep for a while. I look over to the clock. It's eight. The knock is getting louder. As I get out of bed to see who it is, Cindy moans and buries her head into my pillow.

I open the door to see a giant black kid standing on the front porch. It's the guy my brother gave his card to at the church. I realize I'm only wearing my boxers. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, is Toby here?" He has the deepest voice I've ever heard.

"No, he left right after the funeral." I know what he wants.

"Oh, well, I guess I'll just try the number on the card then?"

"I think that's the whole point, big guy."

He looks like he's going to get pissed but he doesn't. "Sorry about your mom, Flash."

"Thanks." I shut the door. I can hear Cindy in the shower upstairs. She has to go to work in an hour.

There's another knock on the door. I open it expecting to see the basketball player still standing there holding my brother's card.

It's the president of the university. He spoke at my mom's funeral about my dad. "Good evening, Mr. Johnson. Have I caught you at a bad time?" He's looking at my boxers.

"No, not really. Come in, I'll put on some coffee . . . and pants."

"I hope not in that order!"

I fake a smile, "Of course not, Mr. . . .?"

"Dr. Rose."

"Of course not, Mr. Rose."

"Doctor Rose."

As I'm upstairs putting on my black suit, Cindy comes out of the bathroom naked. Little beads of water reflect off her pale skin as she walks up to me.

"Who's downstairs?" She's putting her long arms around me.

"The president of the school."

She backs up, "Dr. Rose is downstairs?"

"As you stand here naked."

"He can't know I'm here." She starts getting dressed.

"Umm, Ok. What's the problem?"

She looks flustered, "I don't want to talk about it right now, please?"

"Ok. I'll keep him in the kitchen, just go out through the front door and I'll make something up."

"Thank you, Flash." She smiles with those dark eyes and walks up to me. She's tries to straighten out my hair. "Baby, you need a haircut." She kisses me on the cheek.

"I'm going to go talk to Rose."

"See you after work?"

I walk out of the room and back downstairs.

Dr. Rose is looking at all of the pictures on the walls, "Your dad was an amazing coach, Flash. Those were some good years."

"Yeah. Why don't you come into the kitchen and we'll talk."

He looks at me a little funny, "Hey, if you have a guest upstairs, I could come back tomorrow." He looks up the stairs, trying to catch a glimpse.

"No, she's just leaving. Just some bar trash I found." I cast a sideways glance up the stairs, hoping she didn't hear.

"Now, Mr. Johnson, that bar trash is most likely a student here, please show some respect?" He's grins and winks. It's disgusting.

"Come into the kitchen, please, Dr. Rose. What is it you want?"

His drops his shit-eating grin. "Ah yes, Mr. Johnson, we need to discuss the house."

We step into the kitchen.

As I'm making the coffee, I can hear Cindy slip out the front door. Dr. Rose doesn't seem to notice, he's too busy reading the cards attached to the flowers.

I'm half wondering why Cindy acted the way she did and half wondering about the conversation I'm about to have.

"These are some lovely flowers. Your mother is going to be missed." He's still reading the cards. My mother sat here for three weeks before she was missed.

"What are your plans for the house, Dr. Rose?"

He turns to face me. We're the same height. "Well, to be honest, we were very fair to your mother. As you know, we never officially asked her to move after your father passed." He looks at the coffee pot. I pull two mugs out of the cupboard and set them down.

"By the way, was the funeral to your approval, Mr. Johnson?" He smiles.

I see flash of him standing there, mouth wide open, looking at me after I hit Toby. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Good. Now, I don't need to tell you that the university does indeed own this house." He looks at me, raising his eyebrows like he's some kind of a guidance counselor. "I hope you understand that, though I respect and admired your parents, I need to ask you to leave the house as soon as possible."

The coffee pot is gurgling with expensive coffee. I dump a little creamer in my mug. "I understand."

"Now, I know you are grieving the loss of your mother . . . as we all are," he clasps his hands together like he's about to pray, "but I need you and anything you want to take with you moved out of the house within two weeks."

"Ok." I fill my cup.

"Of course, any memorabilia or anything of that nature, the university would be happy to archive and we will, ah . . . handle whatever else is left behind." His head slowly nodding.

I take a sip. "Sounds good, won't be a problem. Thanks for stopping by, Dr. Rose."

He looks at his empty mug. "Sure." He stands there for a couple seconds, "Well, again, my sincerest condolences on your loss, Mr. Johnson."

"Thanks. I'll walk you out."

On the way to the door, he scans over basketballs.

I found my dad's antique revolver in their bedroom. It's a silver plated six-shooter with an eight inch barrel. I swear it's the kind of gun Billy the Kid would have used. The wooden handle has a carving of a bull blowing out steam. I saw it once when I was little, when Toby was just a baby. My dad had told me that he was getting rid of it. I guess he lied.

It's strange to be in my parent's room. I hated being in here even when I was a kid. Still do. I swear a stained-glass window belongs in here. God knows the shit I've had to confess to.

I can't tell you how strange a feeling it is to have no parents. It's this crazy feeling of freedom mixed with this sickening guilt that comes in massive, crushing waves like a sugar-coated hammer.

I've wondered a lot in the past about whether I would question myself for not sticking around to take care of mom. And to be honest, I'm still not too sure. I know I haven't cried yet.

A recurring memory I have is of the time my father had the university make me a Flash Johnson jersey. I was kind of like the team's mascot for a couple years.

I was #01.

All the players would rub my blonde head for luck before the games.

Toby, while I was asleep one night, cut the jersey into shreds.

I told my dad that I lost it and he kicked my ass. He stopped letting me sit on the bench during games. That was during the 1985 semi-finals.

Paul Roland was the freshman king of Indiana.

I put on the Music for the Masses album by Depeche Mode and start looking through things, waiting for Cindy to get here. I've gone through just about everything.

The phone rings. It's around three in the morning.

"Hello?"

"Flash?"

"Yeah."

It's my brother. "What's up with the house?"

"Like I said, the school's taking it back." I'm sitting at dad's desk, looking through the drawers.

"Man, that's bullshit. Can they do that?"

"Well, yeah. They own it, Toby."

There is some kind of commotion going on wherever he is. "How long did they give you?"

"Two weeks." I crack open the locked bottom drawer. "I'm leaving sooner than that though. Listen, if you want anything, you're going to have to come and get it yourself. I'm not headed towards LA."

"I don't want anything." Rave music is thumping in the background.

There's so much that needs to be said. "Hey, Tobe, you ok?"

"Yeah, sure, Flash. I get by." He laughs his little LA laugh.

I'm not too sure what to say. "Hey, that basketball player you gave your card to stopped by tonight."

"Did you tell him to call me?"

"Yeah."

"Good, he had that Mandingo look about him, you know? That look goes over well in the bi-racial flicks, know what I mean, Flash? I mean, I can make that kid a star."

"I'm sure you can, Toby. Is there a reason you called?" I find a little vile of gold nuggets and a small box of bullets.

"Yeah, actually, I wanted to apologize for the funeral. I shouldn't have gotten that drunk." Girls are laughing in the background.

"It's all right. I was a little drunk too." I almost tell him I'm sorry too but laugh instead. "It felt pretty good to deck you, to be honest."

He laughs, "All right, man, listen, if you're ever in LA, you look me up, ok? I'll show you what it feels like to live like a king, baby!"

"Yeah, sure thing, Tobe." I'm about to hang up.

"Hey Flash?"

I put the receiver to my ear.

"Hey, Cindy is a good girl. She dumped my ass, just so you know."

I hear someone yell "action" from wherever he is. I hang up and put the gold nuggets and bullets in my pocket.

Cindy knocks before coming in the kitchen door. I'm at the table, a pile of bracelets and necklaces, watches, rings, a stack of two dollar bills, car keys, the gold nuggets, some savings bonds and the revolver sitting in front of me. "I brewed some coffee."

"Thanks."

I can tell she's tired.

"What's all this?"

"This," I look at the pile, "is what I'm taking with me."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Where are you going?" She fills one of the basketball mugs.

"Florida. The Keys. Key Largo, maybe. I know a guy down there."

"When?"

"Tonight. Want to come?"

She sits down across from me. "How would we get there?" A smile spreads across her work-stressed face.

"My parent's old Buick." I take a sip of coffee. "I don't think they'll be needing it."

She's looking through the pile of rings. "You haven't even met my mom yet."

"I know."

She looks at me, thumbing my mom's diamond. "Yes."

We're lying in my old bed with the sun screaming in through the window. My record player is singing out Turn Me Loose by Loverboy.

Cindy rolls over to face me and tucks my hair behind my ear.

"Dr. Rose is my step-father."

I look at the suit crumpled up on my floor.

"Yeah, it's his. Did he recognize it?"

"I don't think so." I can't help but laugh. "Well, at least I met your step-father."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you last night, I just didn't want you to freak out while you were talking to him is all."

I look at her.

"I mean, I know you wouldn't freak out, but I thought that I was going to if I told you right then." She looked like I was going to send her to the principal's office or something.

"Listen," I pull her next to me, "I don't care, Cindy. I mean, I care, but it doesn't change anything. I can't explain how you make me feel."

She feels so warm. She's felt right since I met her. She burrows into my chest.

"I'm not too sure I can explain it, but now that my mother is dead, I feel this sick kind of release." I can't believe I'm telling her this, "I mean, I feel so guilty and so lost sometimes, but then, I get these windows of freedom that I can't even begin to describe. It's like I'm driving drunk or something."

She strokes my back, pulling it out of me.

"Since my father died, I've felt responsible for my mom and, honestly, I completely abandoned her. I left. She sat here for three weeks, rotting, Cindy. For eighteen years, rotting."

She looks at me with her black eyes, "It's not your fault, Flash. You can't blame yourself for wanting to live your own life."

"I left Toby. I left Toby to a world of shit for five years."

"I know. I was here. I remember the day you left. It's not your fault, Flash." She looks into my eyes.

She's right. I know she's right and that's why I have to leave here. The whole town knows. That's why I left here in the first place.

I get up and put on Foreigner's I Want to Know What Love Is even though it's always made me cringe.

Part of me wants to stay here and live forever in some kind of permanent self-flagellation for leaving Toby. That same part wants me to coach basketball, be a Hoosier and a son. All the things I never wanted.

Cindy sits up in my old bed, "Flash?"

"Yeah?"

"I've loved you since I watched your father die."

Later that night, after we lay out all of the flowers on the screen room floor, we leave for the Keys. Cindy, me, and my family's treasures.