by Ella Hansing
to press my fingers beneath it. In silence I again wondered what had become of my mother’s lover the other night. Knowing her tendency to become hopelessly dramatic whenever she imagined herself in love, I had good reason to question whether or not they were really finished, or whether or not he might abruptly return with coins in hand. It was difficult to establish the severity of our plight with any degree of certainty. Perhaps he had indeed decided it wise to steer clear of us. This wouldn’t surprise me either. It wasn’t always in a man’s best interest to maintain relations with my mother – not in a city that feasted night and day on gossip so much as Arrapha did, and though young, I knew there were always more elements at play than my mother herself might be aware of, especially when there was little way for her to stay abreast of anything from behind our closed door. Though she took pride in imagining she had no need to venture out – not when all Arrapha came crawling to her steps in the night, her comfortable arrangement of sending me out on all our errands often left her oblivious, and at times drastically ill-informed. Her delusion only increased my sense of obligation toward her – my self-imposed sense of responsibility to guide us from trial and error.
Dusting my palms, I pulled the yeast out from behind the oven and sprinkled it lightly across the crushed grain. In truth I knew I was as helpless as she – disadvantaged by the lowly status supplied me at birth. There was seldom anything I could do to alter our situation, and my being able to see things from my lookout perch on the roof above or hear things now and then in the market succeeded only in doubling my worries.
Adding a little salt and two cups of water from the jar I’d brought, I plunged my hands into the mixture. When the kneading was finished I was pleased to find a sizable amount of dough, the oven now hot enough for me to slide it directly in. Though it would make enough bread to last us a little while, watching it slowly rise failed to lessen my anxiety. As the heat increased I lifted myself from my knees and ventured to pour a little water for myself. I knew it wouldn’t be right to keep the neighbor’s jar for more than a few days, yet I hadn’t come up with any ideas of how we’d manage without it. I wasn’t sure of anything in our lives beyond a few days. Finishing my water grimly, I filled my cup once more and moved to take it to my mother at the front of the house.
“Here’s water and there’s bread rising in the oven,” I murmured, setting the cup at her side. Stirring only for a moment, she rolled over on her other side to face away from me, eyes remaining shut. Straightening stiffly I began to rub my neck – trying to consider what might be done for us.
From the corner of the room, the shimmer of my mother’s jewelry in the morning light caught my gaze. Silent, I moved over to the shelf where her belongings were stored – all her makeup, headpieces and perfumes. I was comforted somewhat to think we had a few things left we could sell – if need be and if things got bad enough, though I knew my mother would be grieved to part with any of it. Though some of the jewelry she’d bought for herself, most of it had been given to her from various lovers, in the height of their frenzied lust – purchased when their passion was still green. Many she no longer wore, favoring ever only the newest pieces.
Noiseless, I drew up a lengthy necklace from her stash – on impulse draping the polished, black beads around my neck, so that they nestled fetchingly above my small bosom. Eyeing one of her vibrant colored scarves folded on the shelf, I slowly took it up. Without pause I fastened it to the top of my head with a clip – in the same fashion entertainers of her sort did, so that it hung down my back over my hair. Next I began to slip my fingers into her rings – one for every finger, lastly pinning one of her thin veils across my face. Curiosity overcoming me, I went to where my mother slept and bent to collect the bowl of water I’d left her. Trying not to spill its contents or rustle my skirts too loud, I carried it back to the windowsill. I’d often watched my mother use this method to catch her reflection in the light, since we had no mirror. Unsure at first what I looked for, I bent my head precariously over the bowl – mouth becoming dry as I glimpsed my image.
The reflection was undeniably alluring look on – the mystery of the veil, revealing only the quiet draw of my eyes, the shimmer of the jewelry, encircling my neck and dangling down the center of my forehead from the clip. I could feel my chest swell the further I gazed on my image, the frantic worries of my young mind somehow dissipating as my eyes transfixed on the water’s surface. I was most surprised by seeing my faint resemblance to my mother. I was bewildered by this, having accepted long ago that I came nowhere near possessing the beauty she retained. Only in considering how her makeup might complete the transformation did I turn briefly away – my mind then abruptly awakening as my eyes were freed of my image. Hands reaching shakily to unclip the scarf from my head, I quickly dismantled my costume and cast the items back in their perspective places – moving a safe distance across the room before turning to look back.
I knew I had only put her costume on out of fear – nothing more. The familiar dread of starvation, ever hanging over us like webs, had driven me to do many things in the past – things for which I usually had a sufficient allowance of forgiveness. Returning to the kitchen I cast my back against the wall and sealed my eyelids shut. Still, it was how easily my mother’s trappings became likable that frightened me most, rendering me helpless to a newfound dread.
6. Visitors
No matter what the time of day, the inside of our home always appeared shoddy and gray. If both the front window and the kitchen hatch were closed, I sometimes made-believed I lived in a cave, like the ones I’d heard about in the eastern mountains, isolated and dark. With only reed mats to cover the dirt floor and thick, colorless walls on every side it wasn’t difficult to imagine.
Over the next two days I left the confines of our home only to fetch water or else sneak up to the rooftop for fresh air. I was grateful to hide away from the rest of Arrapha for a time, being still ashamed by my recent encounters out in the city, and increasingly anxious about our future. I allowed myself access to the open roof only because I felt sure no one could see me – providing I stayed low. Soon becoming my morning routine, I would climb the ladder early in the day and stretch myself across the tiles, spreading myself out in the privacy and warmth above – early enough so it wasn’t yet hot.
Below me a dismal silence, which I was happy at any change to avoid, now filled the entirety of our home – ever since my mother had fallen into hysterics over her absent lover. Amid the nothingness now encompassing us, time eventually began to tangle – the hours of day linking together into uneventful webs, impossible to distinguish from one another, until I could scarce tell what time of day it was, or how I should keep myself occupied as there was nothing to work or plan for. Making matters worse, as usual, my mother refused to see anyone, insisting I keep the front window, which normally she’d drape herself out of in colorful exhibition, tightly shuttered. Eventually one of her lovers came knocking at our door one night – I recognized the sound of his winsome voice at once as one of her wealthier patrons. To my surprise she lifted her finger to her lips at the sound of his call and glared at me, motioning me to be still and make no noise, until at last he gave up and departed. Though curious at once as to the reasoning behind her behavior, my inclinations toward fear and my dread of hunger soon overcame any patience I felt – my mind quick to consider our dwindling ration of bread.
Shortly after this incident, I was further surprised to watch her voluntarily offer me one of her pieces of jewelry to sell in the market to a dealer whom she had connections with. Since we hadn’t yet arrived to the point where I needed to request something from her to trade – or else pry something out of her hands, I was left speechless. Ordinarily the task of her handing over jewelry had become an excruciating ordeal, yet here I found she dropped a piece in my hand without pause, or even a second glance. Examining the item she offered for sacrifice, I saw it was one of her more costly pieces – enough to buy us food for at least a week and a half, as well a
s other supplies we now needed.
Running to the market as soon as it grew dark, the first purchase I made after trading in the jewelry was a new clay water jar – anxious to return the one we’d borrowed to the neighbors. When answering the door the old woman seemed surprised to see me, as if she hadn’t expected to get the jar back. In passing it into her open hands I was at once filled with a sense of gratification, celebrating my small victory with brief, noble bow of my head before turning to go, shoulders cast back as I walked. Having set at least one thing in my life back in order lightened my mood considerably for the next few hours, even causing me to look more fondly toward my mother – increasingly appreciative of her relinquishment of one of her treasures.
Though I wasted little time collecting the things we needed in the market the next night, while there was actually money to pay for them, there were however a few items I delayed purchasing simply because I was still uncertain of what came next for us. Though my mother’s supplies had begun to run low, I bought no additional makeup or incense – and
