The Clay Girl

by Heather Tucker

  “Another one of your stories?”

  The fuck stays tucked under my breath but he feels it as I smolder away, walking right into the trap. Randy corrals Nick as he yells, “Ari, go back.” His, “Don’t . . .” gets swallowed by a scuffle. To my right, on the water’s edge two sticks, tied together form a cross. A fake ear and a plastic gun lay puddled in catsup. A cardboard tombstone reads:

  Mr. Appleguts

  RIP

  Ripped In Pieces

  The scattered petals of some fading bloom, like bits of ham staining the rock, knife me more than the rest.

  The small Hariet in me stares. The lioneagle backs away without a single sound, without a single feeling. Not even breakfast has permission to move out of my gut. Teachers yell, commanding me to come back, but only a one r Hariet would give any of them another thing.

  I know hours have passed by the light moving in the stained glass when Mr. West moves in on one side of the pew and Miss Standish on the other. I hug my knees tighter to my chest. Mr. West touches my shoe. “Ari, what went on back there?” Silence. “Was that about your father?” Peaceful, quiet. Only the occasional soft cough of a pew receiving or releasing weight. “Ari, please, it will help to talk.”

  Air snorts through my nose. Jasper pinches. Shhh, don’t give away that we hear, we feel.

  Miss Standish says, “I know Nick betrayed your trust. I promise whatever you tell us will not be repeated, to anyone. Aaron?”

  Mr. West says, “I promise.”

  I warm somewhere in my core. His name, Aaron, is a little like mine.

  Miss Standish removes some of her teacher clothes. “You know why I’m so drawn to you? I used to wish my father would kill himself. He drank up every bit my mother worked for. All any of us ever got was a whack. My sister and I looked like the cat spit us out. The name that stuck with me was Smelly Belly.” Her arm slips around my shoulder. “I understand what you’ve been through more than you know.”

  A small voice leaks out. “When I was eight, I could believe my dad drowned saving something or someone. Now, I close my eyes and see June’s yellow hair and white face speckled with him. He stained her because she didn’t love him right.”

  I let Miss Standish pull my head to her shoulder. “How so?”

  “She fought back.”

  “And do you think you loved him right?”

  My hand, it’s always my hand I see, small in his, being pushed in his pants to feel worms and fish guts and naked moles, always peppered sweet with, There’s Daddy’s little sweetheart. Quiet words slip out of my mouth, “Jacquie had a baby.”

  I don’t know I’m crying until Mr. West gives me his handkerchief. “I know.”

  “Not Arielle. Christopher. My nephew-brother.”

  “God . . . Jeeesus.”

  Miss Standish sighs, an anchored sigh. “Does Nick know that?”

  Lucky break that so many secrets stayed down deep. “No, but he was there when the fire thing happened and he saw my mother freaking out. I suppose Mrs. Applenuts in a straightjacket is next.”

  Mr. West straightens switchblade-like. The anger in him feels Jesus-and-the-money-changers big and I’m scared.

  “Aaron, stay with Ari. Let me go back and talk to them.”

  “Please, let me go to my aunt’s. I know the way. She’ll see me home.”

  “Aaron, can you take her and make sure it’s okay?” Miss Standish leans into my ear. “I’ve taught for twenty-seven years and you are the one gem I’ll remember most fondly. After I’m your teacher, I hope to be your friend.” Her shoes echo like the aftershocks of “Ave Maria.”

  Mr. West folds into a rubbery bewilderment, his big hands swallowing his face. “Is your aunt’s a good place?”

  “Whenever we got farmed out, I used to hope I’d land with her. Until I got sent East. Pastor and Mrs. Lowry were the worst.”

  “Why?”

  “They’d switch my legs every morning as a warning not to be naughty.” My fingers uncurl, stiff with memory. “Then strap my hands at night just in case they missed something.”

  “My dad couldn’t get through a spanking without turning it into a playfight. My mother thought withholding a cookie was harsh.” My whole cheek fits in his hand as he catches a fat tear with his thumb. “Was your spring poem about your sister?”

  “I’m told her hair is yellow again and she has a baby named Spring. Wish I could see black June’s hair yellow again.”

  “I can’t imagine never seeing my sisters again.” We sit church-quiet and spirit-close. “I better take you to your aunt’s.”

  “Can I have a minute for my face to unpuff?” He pats my foot while we listen a sweet while to the music of silence.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Escaping from Sunny Crest fills Grandma’s dreams. When you’re a wilted old lady hogtied to the bed, options are limited. Auntie Elsie stays on after bringing me back to Toronto and it’s a comfort knowing she’s with Grandma. It frees the body for the burdens at home. The heaviest being how Len has greyed under his eyes.

  Jacquie folds and refolds Arielle’s nappies. “Mum was gone the days you were away and she’s bad jittery again.”

  “Oh, forgodsake, I swear I’m gonna slug her.” I gather my books. “Tell Len I’ll be to work by three thirty.”

  Nick is waiting by the ball diamond before school. “Ari, I really am so sorry.”

  “Just shut the fuck up. Stop talking to me, and about me.”

  “I never meant—”

  “Well you did, and it stinks.”

  I walk into class and a size forty-two in a thirty-eight suit, with yellow teeth and a plaid bowtie demands we sit.

  The intercom comes on; sounding like an SOS from a leaky submarine. “Mr. Fffruger, ffflease send Fffari Fffappleton to the fffoffice.”

  An apology from the SS, maybe? A refund for my troubles?

  The principal, Miss Standish, and a man I don’t know stand in the small office. Mr. West sits forward, examining his shoes. Mr. Barrett directs people to chairs. “Ari, there have been some very serious allegations about the grad trip.”

  “I swear, sir. I never had any drugs.”

  “We received reports that on Friday you ran off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “It was the first time being back where my father died . . . I just needed to sit in the church.”

  “We understand that you were not in your room on Friday night.”

  “I went to my aunt’s.”

  “Did Mr. West go with you?”

  “He walked me there.”

  “And?”

  “He left. My aunt brought me home on the train yesterday.”

  “Did you go back out and meet Mr. West later?”

  “What? Pardon, sir?”

  “Did you meet Mr. West later?”

  “No.”

  “Can your aunt verify that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you alone with Mr. West that day?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What about when Miss Standish left you?”

  “There were Holy Fathers and praying ladies.”

  “Did Mr. West at any time touch you?”

  “Wha . . . geeze . . . no!”

  The man I don’t know says, “Perhaps Mr. West and Miss Standish could wait outside.” The walls and ceiling close in. I stand.

  “Sit, Miss Appleton.”

  “No . . . I . . .”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Miss Standish says, “Either I stay or you call her parents.”

  “We’re just trying to get the facts here.” Mr. Barrett taps his notepad. “West, please wait outside and close the door.”

  “There’s nothing closed-door to tell. He was nothing but Amish with me. He patte
d my shoe and gave me his hankie when I started blubbering and that’s all.”

  “Have you ever seen Mr. West outside of school?”

  “No, sir, or . . . yes, sir. He came to the store to ask my father if he could enter my essay in a contest—and once he patted my dog at the lake.”

  The man I don’t know says, “I thought your father died.”

  “Len’s my stepdad.”

  “Why would anyone make these kinds of allegations?”

  “What allegations?”

  “That Mr. West is perhaps over-involved in your affairs.”

  “Oh, for pity sake. Are there no teacher courses on girl-spitefulness? Sharon hates me and Mr. West blasted her for torturing me.”

  “There’s nothing more?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Barrett. I swear.”

  At this point Miss Standish pipes up. “This is absurd. As I said, Mr. West was about to go back and speak to them over a cruel joke about Ari’s father. I thought it better he cool down. I made the decision to have Mr. West deliver Ari to her aunt. There’s been no impropriety whatsoever. The hours Mr. Thorpe says Mr. West was absent from his room, he was back in the church, talking to me.” Miss Standish guides me to the door. “If you want to interrogate Ari any further, I insist her stepfather be present, but it’s that brat you need to confront.”

  Jasper mutters, These are our educators? Heads of cabbage have more brains.

  I stop where Mr. West is perched outside the office. “I’m really sorry, sir. Appletons are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  His inner animal leaps with some splashy defiance, likely the first of his life. “Then you’re big trouble Ari Appleton because you’re worth more than the moon, sun, and stars.”

  The recess bell rings and I escape. At lunch a police cruiser sits smugly out front of the blue house. I contemplate the gun in Officer Dick’s holster slung over the chair and wonder what colour his balls would make spattered on the green wall. I press on to the store for some Arielle-elixir and lunch with Len.

  “No school, corka?”

  “Forgot my lunch.”

  “Come see what I have hot from London, for your graduation.” He unboxes a work of fashion art.

  “Holy perogies, it’s the grooviest dress ever.” He soaks up my hug and I haven’t the heart to tell him I’d rather be boiled in borscht than go to graduation.

  After lunch, I sideways glance from Pride and Prejudice and see Mr. West back behind his desk. After class Miss Standish stands cross-armed at her door. “Miss Appleton, you are not to leave without signing out. Where did you go?”

  “Home.”

  “There was no answer when I called.”

  Her Mum was in handcuffs.

  Shut it, Jasper. “Store-home. Here, smell Arielle’s spit on my shoulder.” I study the geography of her face. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s all sorted.”

  Three days later when the familiar flllzzz-tap-tap-tap erupts over the PA, my stomach flips. “This is Mr. Barrett, your principal.” He always clarifies that fact. “Graduation is just over three weeks away and with that it’s my great pleasure to announce Oakridge’s top grade earner and class valedictorian . . .” Nick puffs in his seat. He should. Despite being a lily-livered-secrets-for-sex whore, he’s served this school well. “Ari Appleton.”

  Oh, just cut me deep and throw me to the sharks. “Sir, I withdraw, abdicate, and herewith decline.”

  “You can’t. It’s school tradition.” Mr. West looks at Sharon. “Words are powerful. They can destroy or build bridges. Start wars or end them. We will all benefit from your wisdom with words.”

  A pall of silence descends. Not even Rhonda can deflect the death stares landing like arrows on their mark.

  The intercom rarely comes on after “O Canada.” It annoys me right squirrelly when I’m summoned to the office. Perhaps I’m to be made Queen of Oakridge. My first role as her majesty will be to ban the SS from high school. Jacquie and Franc stand there, wobbly and pale as porridge, and I know Mum has washed down too many pills.

  “Ari, Len’s had a heart attack.”

  He’s white and too silent but I know he knows I’m here by the way his hand curls when I hold it. I ask the doctor, “Is he going to die?”

  He says, “The first twenty-four hours are critical.” The nurse says that visiting hours are over. Jacquie says nothing when I slip between the lockers and the heavy door to wait for unseen moments when I can sit with him.

  He won’t leave us, Ari.

  We won’t leave him, Jasper.

  In hospital, night sounds echo, coughs to clatters, whispers to cries, footsteps to fear. Len’s breathing echoes hope.

  Nurses coming and going mark the long hours, twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two . . . I move the chair and the night stand so I’m one quick step to the corner and to my hiding place behind the heavy window drape. One nurse hums whenever she comes in, the war tunes my dad always sang.

  That’s the Nightingale song, Ari.

  The world upside down. Streets paved with stars. I remember, Jasper.

  I hold my breath as the nurse tugs the drape to block the street light outside the window. “You rest, Mr. Zajac. Morning will come.”

  She’s nice.

  Mum didn’t even bother coming. A tail of music follows the nurse out the door, fading into the pale hall light. The aunties said Mum had a beautiful voice. You ever hear her sing, Jasper?

  Never a note.

  I take up my seat beside Len, resting my hand on his heart. “You’re my real papa.”

  There is a blanket over my shoulders and sunlight fanning across the bed when I lift my head. The humming nurse is checking Len’s blood pressure. She elevates his head a little more, winks a smile, and leaves.

  Len is as chalky as the pillow and the distance between us feels more than I can’t bear. While I swab his lips I beg the god of endings not to take the man who makes me believe there’s good in the universe. When I tuck the blanket under his chin I ask the God of our Mothers to have mercy on daughter of Len. His eyes flutter open and I whisper, “I love you, Papa.”

  Twenty-four hours pass and the doctor says, “He’s holding his own.”

  The humming nurse returns for the night shift, leaving two packets of oatmeal cookies and a cup of steamy tea on the windowsill and a blanket on the chair after she checks on Len. Noises beyond the room make him twitch. “It’s okay, Papa. I’m here.”

  Forty-eight hours pass. The doctor scans pages of test results. The way his head nods signals hope. He looks to Jacquie. “Will his wife be in later?”

  “Depends. Are we talking life or death?”

  “Life, I believe.”

  Jacquie’s fingers comb through Len’s stiff hair. “Then, I doubt it.”

  By day three he’s sitting up, eating lime gelatin, and I obey when he says, “Go home and sleep, corka. That’s what I need to feel better.”

  Mum is AWOL: Adulterating With Officer Letch, so I move over to the store. I hear Chase’s voice and Jacquie saying, “She’s sleeping.”

  “I’m awake.”

  Chase comes up the stairs and sits beside me on the couch. Something is stirring between the fruit and nuts, something sweet like Cadbury. “How’s your dad?”

  “The doctor says it was a mild attack and he’ll be okay.”

  “That must piss off your mom.”

  “Insightful, Chase Pace. Jacquie caught her looking for Len’s insurance papers. She didn’t even come to the hospital.”

  “Bitch.” Chase tames my confusion of hair. “Speaking of bitches, Rhonda says Nick’s mom is going ballistic about you being top mark. She started a petition.”

  “Against me?”

  “She thinks English and art marks should weight less because math and science are harder and more importan
t.”

  “What they really mean is that garbage shouldn’t represent the school. Pass me the phone.” I dial the familiar number. “Hello, Mrs. Potter? This is Ari Appleton. My father’s sick and I won’t be at graduation. Nick is the one who should be valedictorian anyway. I’ll have my sister call the school and let them know. Thanks. And I still would like your biscuit recipe. Bye.”

  “Had you pegged as a scrapper.”

  “If I’ve learned anything as a potter it’s, some pieces you fight for and others you release to the scrap pile. I just don’t care.”

  Graduation Thursday, Len is home and doing well. He asks, “Can I at least see you in the dress?” It has an indigo top that hugs my almost spectacular boobs, falling in scarf-sheer layers through every radioactive colour of the rainbow, stopping inches above my knees.

  Jacquie says, “Let me try something with your hair.” She makes it look like a party with little flowers spiraling through.

  Then, lord a t’under, knock me over with a puffin, Aunties M&N sneak up the stairs. “You think we could at least see our girl graduate?”

  I turn to Jacquie. “Where’s Mum?”

  “With that creep, Irwin. Trust me, your graduation is not on her radar.” Jacquie takes sparkly slippers out of a shoebox. “She couldn’t even tell you what grade you’re in.”

  Good, right, Ari?

  Yeah, bloody spectacular.

  Three wheelchairs line the back of the auditorium: Uncle Iggy in one. Grandma, spit and polished in the other, and a third in case Len needs it. Nia and Mary stand, cameras poised. Jacquie and Jory, who mercifully cast off her Rock it Lord T-shirt for a peasant dress, sit together.

  The hoots and cheers from the fruits and nuts are embarrassing, but I like them when I collect the art and the English awards.

  Nick moves with practiced grace through his speech. He’s a bit heavy on sappy quotes, but not bad at all.

  Mr. West approaches the podium to close the ceremony. “Before we end tonight, it’s my privilege to present one last award. Ari Appleton, come to the platform, please.” My legs turn squidish. I can’t remember what’s in my stomach, but it’s doing a mazurka. “This year I submitted a piece to the National Literary Competition. Ari’s essay, Filling Uncle Iggy’s Shoes, took first place in the junior essay division.” He passes me an envelope and a book. “Ari wins a one hundred dollar cash prize and her work has been published in this anthology. I’m hoping Ari can find her way around some of her words for us tonight.”