The Girl in the Flammable Skirt

by Aimee Bender

We all drove home together that afternoon. Grandma in the backseat between me and Hannah wrapped up in the baby blanket she had knitted herself, years before.

  I remember this one, she remarked, fingering its soft pink weave. I did a nice job.

  My father, driving, poked his hole.

  I thought it might be a baby without a stomach, he said to my mother in the front seat. I never thought this.

  He put an arm on her shoulder.

  I love your mother, he said, stroking her arm.

  My mother stiffened. I do too, she said. So?

  I hadn’t gone to my father’s father’s funeral. It had been in Texas and I’d just finished with strep throat and everyone decided Hannah and I would be better off with the neighbors for the weekend. Think of us Sunday, my mother had said. I’d worn black overalls on Sunday, Hannah had rebelled and worn purple, and together we buried strands of our hair beneath the spindly roots of our neighbor’s potted plants.

  When they returned, I asked my father how it was. He looked away. Sad, he said, fast, scratching his neck.

  Did you cry? I asked.

  I cried, he said. I cry.

  I nodded. I saw you cry once, I assured him. I remember, it was the national anthem.

  He patted my arm. It was very sad, he said, loudly.

  I’m right here, I told him, you don’t have to yell it.

  He went over to the wall and plucked off the black-and-white framed photograph of young Grandpa Edwin.

  He sure was handsome, I said, and my father rested his hand on top of my head—the heaviest, best hat.

  After we arrived home from the hospital, Hannah and I settled Grandma in the guest bedroom and our parents collapsed in the den: our father, bewildered, on the couch, our mother flat-backed on the floor, beginning a round of sit-ups.

  Fuck if my mother is going to ruin my body, she muttered. Fuck that shit.

  I brought a book on sand crabs into the living room and pretended to read on the couch. Hannah promptly got on the phone. No really! I heard her saying. I swear!

  My father watched my mother: head, knees. Up, down.

  At least you can do sit-ups, he said.

  She sat-up, grit her teeth, and sat-down. Some good sperm, she said, nearly spitting.

  It’s miracle sperm, my father said.

  Excuse me, I said, I’m in the room.

  Miracle? my mother said. Make it your dad then. Tell your fucking chromosomes to re-create him.

  Her breasts leaked, useless, onto her T-shirts—cloudy milk-stain eyes staring blind up at the ceiling. She did a set of a hundred and then lay flat.

  Mommy, I said, are you okay?

  I could hear Hannah in the other room: She died in October, she was saying. Yeah, I totally saw.

  My mother turned her head to look at me. Come here, she said.

  I put down my book, went over to her and knelt down.

  She put a hand on my cheek. Honey, she said, when I die?

  My eyes started to fill up, that fast.

  Don’t die, I said.

  I’m not, she said, I’m very healthy. Not for a while. But when I do, she said, I want you to let me go.

  I was able to attend my mother’s mother’s funeral. I kept close to Hannah for most of it, but when the majority of relatives had trickled out, I found my mother huddled into a corner of the white couch—her head back, face drawn.

  I sat next to her, crawled under her arm and said, Mama, you are so sad.

  She didn’t move her head, just petted my hair with her hand and said: True, but honey, I am sad plus.

  Plus what I never asked. It made me not hungry, the way she said it.

  She stopped her sit-ups at ten-thirty that night. It was past my bedtime and I was all tucked in, lights out. Before she’d fallen asleep, Hannah and I had been giggling.

  Maybe I’ll have you, I said, stroking my stomach.

  She’d sighed. Maybe I’ll have myself, she’d whispered.

  That concept had never even crossed my mind. Oldest, I hissed back.

  After a while, she’d stopped answering my questions. I prodded my stomach, making sure it was still there and still its usual size. It growled back.

  I heard my mother let out a huge exhale in the den and the steady count: three hundred and five, three hundred and six, stopped.

  Stepping quietly out of bed, I tiptoed into the hallway; my father was asleep on the couch, and my mother was neatening up the bookshelves, sticking the horizontal books into vertical slats.

  Mommy, I called.

  She didn’t turn around, just held out her arm and I went right to it.

  My baby, she said, and I felt myself blooming.

  We sat down on the couch, curled together, my knees in a V on her thigh. Her side was warmer than usual from the sit-ups, even a little bit damp. She leaned her head against mine and we both stared ahead, at the closed drapes that were ivory, specked with brown.

  I’m hungry, I said.

  Me too.

  We stood and went to the refrigerator. I found some leftover spaghetti. My mother opened the freezer doors, rummaged around and brought out half a cake.

  I never knew there was cake in there, I mumbled, stuffing a forkful of noodles into my mouth.

  It was chocolate on the outside and sealed carefully in plastic.

  This was from Grandma’s funeral, she told me.

  I blinked. No way, I said. The marzipan one? I loved that cake.

  You tried it? My mother unwrapped it.

  I ate at least three pieces, I said. It was the best food at the wake by far.

  She cut me a thin slice and put it on my place mat.

  Most ten-year-olds don’t like marzipan, she told me. It’s Grandma’s favorite, marzipan is, she said. You must’ve gotten the taste from her.

  I nibbled at its edge. It was cold and grainy from the freezer.

  Delicious, I said, savoring the almond paste as it spread out in my mouth.

  My mother cut herself a piece, grabbed a fork from the drying rack and sat down across from me.

  Why do we have it? I asked.

  She shrugged. You know some people keep pieces of wedding cake, she said, taking a bite.

  In the morning, my father was holding the photograph of his father in his lap.

  Edwin, I said. Handsome Grandpa Edwin.

  He pulled me close to him. Grandpa Edwin had thick brown curls.

  He really was an asshole, my father said.

  I started laughing: loud, full laughter.

  He put a hand over my mouth and I laughed into his palm.

  Sssh, Lisa, he said. Don’t laugh about it.

  It’s funny, I mumbled.

  Don’t laugh at a dead man, he said.

  I had a few left in me and I let them out, but they were half their big belly laugh size by then.

  How’s the hole? I asked, when I was done. Does it hurt?

  Nah, he said. It’s no big deal.

  Can I see?

  He raised his thin undershirt.

  Can I touch? I asked. He nodded. I gingerly put my fingertips on the inner circle; his skin felt like skin.

  So where do you think it went? I asked.

  What, he said, the skin?

  Everything, I said: the skin, the ribs that were in the way, the stomach acid, all of it.

  I guess it’s all still in there, he said. I guess it’s just pushed to the side.

  I think it’s cool, I said, imagining a new sports game kind of like basketball that revolved around my father.

  He put his shirt back down, a curtain falling. I don’t, he said. But it didn’t kill me, he said, and I’m grateful for that.

  • • •

  At dinner my grandmother cooked her famous soup with tiny hot dogs floating in a thick bean broth.

  I missed this soup, I said, I never thought I’d eat this soup again. This is my favorite soup in the whole world.

  Hannah promptly lost a piece of bread inside and poked around the bowl with
her fork.

  Let’s hold hands, said my mother, before we start.

  I swallowed the spoonful in my mouth.

  I grabbed Hannah’s hand and my grandmother’s hand. One was soft and mushy and the other one was soft and mushy, but different kinds of soft and different kinds of mushy.

  My mother closed her eyes.

  We never say prayers, I interrupted.

  We are today, said my mother.

  I bowed my head.

  So what do we say? I asked, looking down into my soup which was bobbing along. Something about bread?

  Sshh, said my father. It’s a silent prayer.

  No, it’s not that, said my mother, I’m still thinking.

  Ow, Hannah told my father, you’re squeezing too hard.

  I think we’re supposed to be thankful, I hinted.

  Hannah turned and glared at me. Shut up, she said. Give her a second.

  My grandmother was quiet, smelling her soup.

  Needs salt, she whispered.

  My mother looked up.

  I’m not sure what to say, she said. Her eyebrows furrowed, uncertain.

  Let’s make it up, I said. I squeezed Hannah’s hand and my grandma’s hand, and at the same time, they squeezed back.

  I’ll start it, I said, and we’ll go around the circle.

  My mother looked relieved. Good, she said, that sounds good.

  I would like to say thanks, I began, for my parents and my sister and for the special appearance of Grandma … I turned to Hannah.

  … And for Grandma’s soup which is the best soup and is way better than that fish thing we were going to eat. She faced my father.

  He cleared his throat. There’s usually something about survival in good prayers, he said. Thanks for that.

  My mother gave him a look. That’s so impersonal, she said.

  He shrugged. I’m on the spot, he said. Survival is important to me.

  My mother looked us all over and I could see the candle flame flickering near her eye. Her gaze held on her mother.

  We all waited.

  It’s your turn, I said, in case she’d forgotten.

  She didn’t look at me. She stood up, breaking the handlinks she had made, and sat close to her mother.

  My father began eating his soup.

  I have a cake from your funeral, she said.

  I felt myself lift inside. I squeezed down on Hannah’s hand. She said Ouch.

  Cake? my grandmother said. What kind of cake?

  Marzipan cake, my mother said.

  My grandmother smiled. Marzipan? she said. That’s my favorite.

  I stood up; I wanted to be the one; I went to the freezer, opened it, dug around and found the cake wedged beneath the third ice tray like a small football.

  Here, I said. Here it is.

  My mother grabbed it out of my hands.

  Just a taste, she said.

  Let’s all have some! I said. We can all eat funeral cake!

  Just a little, my mother said.

  Oh come on! I said. Let’s make it: into five pieces.

  My mother looked at me.

  Okay, she said. Five pieces. Her face looked lined and tired as she cut up the cake. I passed a piece to each of us. My grandmother bit into hers right away.

  Mmm, she said. That is good, now that is good.

  My mother did not eat hers. She wrapped it back in the plastic.

  My grandmother kept eating and oohing. I bit into mine. Hannah gave me hers; she hates marzipan. I nearly hugged her. My father ate his quickly, like an appetizer.

  I remember, said my mother, we all thought you would’ve liked it. We said you would’ve loved it.

  My grandmother licked her lips. I do love it, she said. She pointed. Are you going to eat your piece?

  No, said my mother.

  Can I have it? she asked. I haven’t had such good marzipan in I don’t know how long.

  No, my mother said, closing her fingers over her piece. I want to keep mine, she said.

  Oh come on, said my father, let the lady have her cake. It was her funeral cake for God’s sake.

  I finished my slice. I still had Hannah’s.

  Here, Grandma, I said, Hannah didn’t want hers. I slid the whitish slab onto her plate.

  Thank you dear, my grandmother said.

  I want to keep mine, my mother repeated.

  Hannah began on her soup. Her spoon made dull clinking sounds on the bowl.

  The soup is good, Grandma, she said.

  Mmm-hmm, said my father.

  My mother sat still at her place. The plastic-wrapped cake sat next to her spoon. She didn’t touch her soup. The hot dogs stopped floating and were still.

  I’ll eat yours if you don’t want it, I said to my mother.

  She pushed over her bowl. I pretended I was her while I ate it. I imagined I was doing the eating but she was getting nourished.

  When I was done, I asked: May I be excused?

  No one answered, so I stayed.

  PART TWO

  Quiet Please

  Skinless

  Fugue

  Drunken Mimi

  Fell This Girl

  QUIET PLEASE

  It is quiet in the rest of the library.

  Inside the back room, the woman has crawled out from underneath the man. Now fuck me like a dog she tells him. She grips a pillow in her fists and he breathes behind her, hot air down her back which is starting to sweat and slip on his stomach. She doesn’t want him to see her face because it is blowing up inside, red and furious, and she’s grimacing at the pale white wall which is cool when she puts her hand on it to help her push back into him, get his dick to fill up her body until there’s nothing left of her inside: just dick.

  The woman is a librarian and today her father has died. She got a phone call from her weeping mother in the morning, threw up and then dressed for work. Sitting at her desk with her back very straight, she asks the young man very politely, the one who always comes into the library to check out bestsellers, asks him when it was he last got laid. He lets out a weird sound and she says shhh, this is a library. She has her hair back and the glasses on but everyone has a librarian fantasy, and she is truly a babe beneath.

  I have a fantasy, he says, of a librarian.

  She smiles at him but asks her original question again. She doesn’t want someone brand new to the business but neither is she looking for a goddamn gigolo. This is an important fuck for her. He tells her it’s been a few months and looks sheepish but honest and then hopeful. She says great and tells him there’s a back room with a couch for people who get dizzy or sick in the library (which happens surprisingly often), and could he meet her there in five minutes? He nods, he’s already telling his friends about this in a monologue in his head. He has green eyes and no wrinkles yet.

  They meet in the back and she pulls the shade down on the little window. This is the sex that she wishes would split her open and murder her because she can’t deal with a dead father; she’s wished him dead so many times that now it’s hard to tell the difference between fantasy and reality. Is it true? He’s really gone? She didn’t really want him to die, that is not what she meant when she faced him and imagined knives sticking into his body. This is not what she meant, for him to actually die. She wonders if she invented the phone call, but she remembers the way her mother’s voice kept climbing up and up, and it’s so real and true she can’t bear it and wants to go fuck someone else. The man is tired now but grinning like he can’t believe it. He’s figuring when he can be there next, but she’s sure she’ll never want him again. Her hair is down and glasses off and clothes on the floor and she’s the fucked librarian and he’s looking at her with this look of adoration. She squeezes his wrist and then concentrates on putting herself back together. In ten minutes, she’s at the front desk again, telling a youngster about a swell book on aisle ten, and unless you leaned forward to smell her, you’d never know.

  There is a mural on the curved ceiling of
the library of fairies dancing. Their arms are interwoven, hair loose from the wind. Since people look at the ceiling fairly often when they’re at the library, it is a well-known mural. The librarian tilts her head back to take a deep breath. One of the fairies is missing a mouth. It has burned off from the glare of the sunlight, and she is staring at her fairy friends with a purple-eyed look of muteness. The librarian does not like to see this, and looks down to survey the population of her library instead.

  She is amazed as she glances around to see how many attractive men there are that day. They are everywhere: leaning over the wood tables, straight-backed in the aisles, men flipping pages with nice hands. The librarian, on this day, the day of her father’s death, is overwhelmed by an appetite she has never felt before and she waits for another one of them to approach her desk.

  It takes five minutes.

  This one is a businessman with a vest. He is asking her about a book on fishing when she propositions him. His face lights up, the young boy comes clean and clear through his eyes, that librarian he knew when he was seven. She had round calves and a low voice.

  She has him back in the room; he makes one tentative step forward and then he’s on her like Wall Street rain, his suit in a pile on the floor in a full bucket, her dress unbuttoned down, down, one by one until she’s naked and the sweat is pooling in her back again. She obliterates herself and then buttons up. This man too wants to see her again, he might want to marry her, he’s thinking, but she smiles without teeth and says, man, this is a one-shot deal. Thanks.

  If she wanted to, she could do this forever, charge a lot of money and become rich. She has this wonderful body, with full heavy breasts and a curve to her back that makes her pliable like a toy. She wraps her legs around man number three, a long-haired artist type, and her hair shakes loose and he removes her glasses and she fucks him until he’s shuddering and trying to moan, but she just keeps saying Sshhh, shhh and it’s making him so happy, she keeps saying it even after he’s shut up.

  The morning goes by like normal except she fucks three more men, sending them out periodically to check her desk, and it’s all in the silence, while people shuffle across the wood floor and trade words on paper for more words on paper.

  After lunch, the muscleman enters the library.

  He is tan and attractive and his arms are busting out of his shirt like balloons. He is with the traveling circus where he lifts a desk with a chair with a person with a child with a dog with a bone. He lifts it up and never drops anything and people cheer.