Living on the Borderlines

by Melissa Michal

  “Thank you.” Elisha’s hand touched mine when I handed her a plate. The backdrop of cloud colors turned Elisha’s clothes a purple hue. It emphasized dirt stains and the too small blouse. She smiled at me, but pulled away quickly. Her copper skin glowed.

  Bob and Phillip talked about repairs and gardening. Phillip wanted to add on a room, and the two men gestured and pointed with ideas.

  “Elisha needs her own space,” said Phillip.

  “Do you like living here with Phillip?” I asked. I lowered my voice so she might feel it was more private.

  She tilted her face up. Her black eyes held curiosity. “Yes, I guess I do.”

  “You miss your mom?”

  Elisha nodded.

  “Is he good to you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Better than the rest of this town.

  “He gives me more food than him,” she said. “And he sleeps on the floor. He teaches me things. He let me chop wood and pull vegetables. Nobody ever showed me things like that, ’cept my mom.”

  “Do you want to stay here?” I asked.

  “No one else’ll take me, I presume.” The black in her eyes sharpened, and her voice toughened yet wavered. “It doesn’t matter. My dad used to tell me, ‘Life comes for reasons. What we get is everything we need.’”

  “Dad?”

  “He died a while back.”

  “I’m sorry, Elisha. For both he and your mama.”

  She bowed her head. “Daddy called me Turtle.” Somehow her voice echoed a strong whisper, quiet, but without any shyness. “We lived up in New York near Buffalo. Cattaraugus. We had a house like this, too. All rented, though.” She shrugged. “Phillip put up the swing after I told him about my dad’s.”

  “Fitting.” She was slow to trust and move. But it was the town that acted slow accepting her … if they ever would. “How did he … go?”

  “Somebody beat him. Standing up for a woman at a bar.”

  “Oh my.” I put my arm around her. That must have been the most I’d heard her talk.

  “We’ll start her in school this fall, too,” said Phillip.

  The pit of my stomach turned. What school? Would they let her in?

  Bob’s eyes matched mine. He nodded at me.

  “Let’s cut into the pie,” said Elisha.

  Phillip pulled down plates. With them midair in his hands, he stopped.

  “What is it?” asked Bob.

  “Not sure.”

  I listened. Birds had stopped singing. Gusts whipped branches against the house. Tap tap. Scrape. Crickets no longer rubbed their wings together. The leaves rustled green to green.

  Phillip poked his head out the window and stared into the fields.

  “Get in the cellar,” he whispered.

  I almost didn’t hear him. Elisha froze. We all seemed to recognize the tone in his voice.

  “Why?” asked Elisha.

  “Storm’s coming.” He flipped back a rug and pulled up a door. Stairs led down into the dark.

  “There’s candles,” said Phillip. “I think it’s a funnel cloud.”

  That moved my feet, even with his calm, slow movements. I put my arms around Elisha, and we climbed down. The air felt hollow. It tugged me backwards. Bob’s shirt billowed out around him like a blue ghost. The men’s words swallowed up into the atmosphere. How quickly the air changed.

  I tapped around for candles and matches. My fingers trembled. But the wind would only blow out the flames.

  When Phillip latched the door above us, dark took over. Yet pounding sounds only got worse. I lit the candles. I couldn’t speak. It had been a long time since a storm like this rolled over our town. One happened right after Bob and I married and had come back from the honeymoon. We clung together in my mother’s basement. Many houses fell to the ground under the gale forces. Mama’s didn’t. But it wasn’t quite as recognizable afterwards.

  A few minutes passed without any words. But then something perked my ears.

  “Do you hear that?” I asked. My words came out like I was talking into a bottomless tin can strung to a neighbor’s house.

  “Yeah,” said Phillip.

  He rushed up the stairs and threw back the door. Candles whipped into black. But some light filtered down. I could make out Elisha’s shaking body.

  Bob gathered the rest of us together closely and away from the door. The winds pushed me straight against the wall. We all squeezed hands.

  Finally Phillip and a few others clunked down the steps in slow, forced moves, them against the stream. The room flipped to ink, and again I lit candles. There sat Martin and Kearny and their nephew, Sid.

  “Hello,” I said. I heard my voice waver.

  “We saw the light on,” said Martin. Dirt covered all over the three of them. “I was driving us home from taking Sid to that fair over in Fayette County. We didn’t think we would be able to drive on through once we saw it.”

  “Thank God for small miracles,” Kearny said. She touched her husband’s hand for a moment and then lifted it.

  Sid waved at Elisha, and she smiled. Elisha waved back. The boy readied to move closer to her, but Kearny nudged him and shook her head.

  I pursed my lips and put my arm under Bob’s to take his hand. Our eyes met and that was all I needed. I caught Phillip with his arm around Elisha. He kissed her on the forehead and wiped a tear on his sleeve. The girl leaned on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  What did it matter her papa could be a different makeup? What did it matter?

  Martin and Kearny sat side by side, shoulders close to touching, but not.

  When we came up the stairs, the air stood still. Particles hung in the shafts of fading light through new roof holes. I could feel grit in the back of my throat and nostrils. The door hung at an angle off its hinges. Branches littered the floor, and broken glass and plates mingled with them. The table and chairs and blankets had been flung against one wall.

  Our car had shingles, boards, and branches all over it. The windshield was shattered. Bob cleaned the glass off the seat and got it to start, though. The Tobys’ car, crushed by a tree, couldn’t be salvaged. An oak and two pine trees had fallen across Phillip’s garden as well.

  “Everybody’s okay,” said Phillip. “That’s important.”

  “Yeah,” Elisha replied.

  He nodded, and they started to pick up tree limbs.

  I peered at the shabby house as we drove away. We gave the Tobys a ride. The three looked like sardines in the back, sitting tall, hands in their laps, dullness crossing their faces.

  Phillip and Elisha left my porch, leftovers on plates in their hands. The two laughed and giggled down the sidewalk. They were still talking about a train trip back to her home to maybe see if she had cousins. That Phillip would always be so hopeful.

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  Across the street, Erma waved her hand up. I signaled her over.

  “They had us over last week,” I said. Erma asked her normal twenty questions. She couldn’t believe I’d invited them to dinner. The tornado veered a month in the past. Our town seemed to be getting back to its normal.

  “Well, I don’t know why he keeps her. It’s all so tragic.”

  “What is?”

  “The two of them together.”

  “She belongs with him.”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s right.”

  I hoped that the protests would remain as quiet as they had been, hands-off. No one wanted to get involved. They just wanted their town pristine the easy way. Didn’t look like it would be easy for a while. But I just didn’t see it. Wasn’t a child always a blessing?

  “You know,” I said, “we could all be more like Phillip.”

  Erma hmmfed and shuffled toward her house.

  Phillip and Elisha became blurs on the horizon, disintegrating dots. They melted together, and I couldn’t tell one from the other, which was short, which was tall. The three-mile walk must have taken on pleasant tones in the waning light
and cooling air.

  “Come sit with me,” called Bob from the porch. He patted the space beside him on the swing.

  We watched the stars come out, the lightning bugs flying around, our trees reaching up to hit the sky—ladders to the stars and mountaintops. We swayed back and forth, the swing creaking beneath us, in the breeze that came on, that was starting to push through.

  Morning Smile

  Her mother had named her from the top girls’ names list twenty years previously. It meant olive. A food. Of all things. There was nothing behind those letters but popularity. These thoughts entered her mind as her employer spoke.

  “Olivia? Do you hear me? No butter. He can’t have those calories.” She snapped her fingers.

  The voice that penetrated her thoughts was the mother’s. She really did care for her son. Really. Well, maybe. Olivia wasn’t always sure.

  “I got it. No cooking with butter. It’s just—”

  “No excuses, Olivia. We must stick to his diet.” Diana stood there, a fitted black dress covering just enough to be professional. Her hair freshly curled in large, hair-sprayed waves.

  Olivia would have told her there was no other way to keep the scrambled eggs from sticking. And could she get cooking spray. But the conversations usually rambled quickly and off Diana went. She and her husband, David, were house flippers and real-estate agents.

  George, after little Prince George—no lie—was still asleep. Neither Diana or David ever woke George. Nannies had been coming and going since he was born. Each one appeared to last perhaps four months, with at least four always on payroll. This was her second month.

  Six fifteen. She wandered the house, so quiet sometimes she got creeped out. More so nights. The dark wood doors, window frames, and molding was typical East Ave, dating back a few hundred years. Some designer had lovingly saved the older details. Olivia ran her fingers along windowsills where the housekeeper had so carefully cleaned each nook. No dust. No spider webs.

  She had until seven, George’s wake-up time. Why she needed to come so early beforehand, she couldn’t imagine. Hours were strict and lunches controlled. Although anything in the fridge was fair game, including the pricey Fiji water. She wondered where the liquid truly came from. The flavor was crisp, almost metallic, and clearly no Rochester pipe water.

  Light shone through the back window looking out onto a small backyard and large tiled pool. Workers had only finished the house, but outside was a different story. A few boxes of tile choices sat by the pool deck.

  The green back there. So green. But the bushes were thick, older, probably some English style, all about privacy. But nothing about looks.

  Not what I would pick, she often thought.

  She walked up the stairs, careful not to touch a foot to squeaky sections. George would be cranky all day if she woke him early. The house had so many pockets and hidden spaces, the mansion style of the area. The mother had turned a closet outside George’s bedroom into the tiniest kitchen. They currently had no kitchen—the last of the reno projects. So this was it.

  Stainless-steel refrigerator, sink, and dishwasher. All somehow full-size with two upper cabinets and one lower. There was a small counter, just enough for a dish strainer. Dishes couldn’t be left out, though. So Olivia checked this.

  Shit. That night nanny. Olivia grumbled as she put away George’s dishes and even the night nanny’s it seemed. Each item had a spot in either drawers or above the sink. At five foot, she had a hard time reaching the upper space. If anyone heard her grunting during this job, or cussing (not in front of George, of course), they would raise their eyebrows. But this was how she paid for her senior year at St. John Fisher College. A phone-number tab on the library wall and here she was. She started college later than most, so she felt old compared to the other nannies.

  A previous nanny, Maureen, had warned her that the family was putting in nanny cams throughout George’s room and the sitting room. She had pointed to the bedroom light when she told Olivia. But the house’s security room showed no signs of bedroom cameras. She snuck a peek one day when the housekeeper left to answer the door.

  The water drained, swirling, a motion she told George jokingly was a mini-tornado. The two often made things up. At three, he had an imagination she couldn’t have possibly dreamed when she was that age.

  Seven on the dot. She opened his bedroom door inch by inch. She didn’t want to jolt him awake.

  “George. Honey? Wake up.” She whispered the words, letting them float over him. She touched his shoulder and pulled the blankets back a small bit. “George. It’s time to get up.”

  Walking all around the room, she rolled up the shades to four large windows, so high you could see far across and down the street. Trees grew so their branches appeared as if they were about to enter the room. The shades made no sound, but light now streamed around the room.

  “No,” he croaked. “No light.” He put his hand over his face.

  “George.” She sat by him, the firm mattress holding her body and his.

  He opened his eyes. “Olivia!” He leaped up and wrapped arms around her. His smile was so wide, his missing front tooth showed. Another nanny had gotten in trouble for that early loss when he fell outside.

  “His pictures!” Diana had exclaimed. “They’ll be ruined.”

  She nodded when Diana said this. But Olivia held back her true thoughts. Who cares?

  “Olivia, can we play with my trains?”

  “All day if you want, buddy. We just need to eat breakfast now.”

  “Oh.” His face fell a moment. He shrugged and then smiled again. “It’s morning.”

  “It is!” Olivia rubbed his back. “I’m so excited to see you. Good morning, George.”

  “Good morning, Nanny Olivia.” He lightly pulled her hair, jumped out of bed, and padded into his mini walk-in closet. “I want to wear orange today.” There was room for two to stand and pick out clothes.

  “Sure. You have those shorts or the tee shirt with orange in the design.” She pulled both out and knew his answer.

  “Both!”

  They struggled getting his clothes on, mainly because he wanted to wander naked. He may have had his mother’s eye for fashion, but not her desire to actually wear clothing. A few times he got loose and ran, everything jiggling and free.

  “George, come on. We’ve got to get our day started.”

  “No!” He ran and ran, circling her.

  “You won’t get breakfast if you don’t get dressed. Remember what Mama said.”

  “No breakfast.”

  Olivia sighed. She grabbed him, swinging him around, and he laughed. When she placed him on the toilet, he stopped.

  “No, Olivia. I can’t go now.”

  “Just try. It’s been all night.”

  “I think I went in my Pull-Ups.”

  She blew hair out of her face and kneeled until the slow tinkle streamed down into the toilet.

  “Excellent, buddy. Good job.” They high-fived.

  Once finally dressed, Olivia brought him an egg, avocado, orange slices, and milk. He ate the avocado and egg, drinking milk down in between. She had to take the milk away so he didn’t fill up on that alone.

  They walked the neighborhood, him almost too big now for the stroller, his legs hanging, nearly touching the sidewalk. But Olivia knew George wouldn’t get far on foot. Just going down the street to the small playground outside a school, he asked at least twice that he be carried. His dad was six four. The little boy was growing faster than his age could keep up.

  They browsed pastry and chocolate shops, trendy boutiques, and restaurants. Mostly window-shopping. She didn’t want him eating sweets, neither did his mom, and she didn’t have extra money. College. Books. Coffee shops. All had her wallet.

  “Let’s go back, buddy.” They neared the block’s end, and her legs had tired. His weight was heavy pushed that long.

  His nonresponse made her peek under the black shade. Out. Nap time. His mother wasn�
��t going to like a morning nap.

  The house loomed large and gloomy in a back corner, with an English air about it. Dark, heavy wood, gray brick, and the largest front doors she had ever seen. They reminded her of those doors she had seen in gothic movies with extraordinarily large door knockers and strange carvings. Here, there were only carvings along the sides and corners. She didn’t think they wanted people knocking with something that might wear down the wood.

  He woke as soon as they entered and “front door open” followed by a loud beep sounded while the door creaked opened.

  “Home, Olivia?”

  “Home, George. You hungry?”

  “Ummm, yes.”

  The afternoon flew by quickly with postlunch coloring, puzzles, and a woozy food coma leading to another nap.

  Diana came home early. Popping in unannounced wasn’t unusual. “Hello, Olivia. Everything go okay?” She didn’t look at Olivia, but flipped through notes she had taken that day regarding George. Daily journals were required.

  “Good. He’ll be asleep for another half hour.”

  “Okay. Just in time for dinner. We’re taking him out with friends. Be sure he’s dressed appropriately.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’d be more than welcome to come. Kate canceled tonight.” Diana showed her dimpled smile, but it was tight. The tone was strained with deeper notes. She was exhausted.

  “I’m afraid I have a summer class.” Dodged. George eating out was a nightmare.

  “Oh, I see. You are always welcome to take on more hours. We might need that.”

  “Okay.” Olivia gulped. Sweat trickled down her sides. Even the meanest teacher hadn’t ever made her this nervous. But this woman had her stomach flipping.

  “Oh, yes.” Diana’s voice and demeanor changed. Almost … cheered up. Brightened. “I got this the other day. You’re Iroquois, right?”

  “Seneca, yes.” What is this?

  “This postcard came. Apparently your tribe is putting on a festival.” Her fingernails were rounded and pointed at the same time in the lightest pink shade. When she put her hands on her hips, they flashed with the light. “You’ll be there of course, I suspect.”

  “It’s been going on for over twenty years. This year, I’ll be watching George.” Olivia was surprised his mother even brought it up. She didn’t usually tell bosses or coworkers her background. She wanted to avoid the whole “oh that’s so cool you’re Native.” But Diana had been talking about George’s family tree and his blood ties to King Charles II and had asked her about it naturally in conversation.