you know, for the big celebration.
We could celebrate her hundred years
and the two little lambs
all with one big
hooting nanny!”
“Ooh, great idea!
But we’ll need to check with
the head shepherd, dontcha think?
Is she up to it?
That’s a whole lot of excitement
for one old shepherd.”
Davy and Trent roll the singing soccer ball
around near our park bench conversation.
Davy’s perfect hearing picks it up.
“Are you guys talking about the shepherd
like in the Christmas pageant?”
“Yeah, sort of,” Mia chimes in.
“What do you know about those
shepherds, Davy?”
“They watched over the flocks
at night. I don’t know what they did
in the daytime, but I’ll bet
they talked with the angels
that were bending down
close to the earth.
Angels are probly here right now
watching over us.
We just can’t see them.”
Mia blinks back something in her eyes
and hops up to give the ball
a swift kick towards the field.
She grabs each boy by the hand
and shouts.
“Come on, guys. Let’s murder this ball!”
I follow behind,
loving my best friend
for loving my brothers.
MOMENT OF INDECISION
Mia shows Davy where to set down his cane
and we take over the middle of the field
in a noisy free-for-all.
She makes sure both boys get the ball
and I focus on potential hazards:
rocks,
holes,
sticks,
stray dogs.
Human hazards weren’t on my list
until loud laughter off to the sideline
coming from two hefty guys in football jerseys
catches my attention.
One works hard to entertain the other
with a sickening slap-stick
using Davy’s cane.
Now the other takes a turn,
marching around like a drum major
or Gene Kelly and his umbrella.
My heart races as I try to chase them away
with a burning stare.
I know they see me watching them.
Are they baiting me?
I look closer.
Do I know them from somewhere?
I consider
the situation,
the size, the ugliness of these guys,
the possibility of danger,
and my brothers,
obliviously
enjoying this carefree moment.
Now Mia sees me and the scenario.
She keeps the game going with the boys
but mouths “Whadya gonna do?”
I’m frozen with fear,
indecision, uncertainty,
and then
horror
as I watch them use the cane
like a spear,
launching it into the highest tree
on the edge of the park
before taking off
like laughing hyenas.
Mia recovers enough to make light of it.
“Aw, would you look at that.
I’ll bet a dog has carted your cane off, Davy.
I should have found a better place
to set it down.
I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. Maybe an angel picked it up
and took it to someone who needs it
more than me.”
Mia looks like she’s about to have
another itching eye attack.
She tucks Davy’s arm around hers
and guides him home
while I walk with Trent.
We listen as the boys carry on
about angels, shepherds, and soccer.
ANY MORE UGLINESS
When she gets home
Mia texts:
If something like that ever happens again
while I’m with you
let’s take ‘em on.
Jerks like that don’t deserve
to breathe. smh
Sure, Mia. The two of us
against football biceps?
And what would we have done
with the boys while playing
tackle football with two monsters?
Idk… Should have called cops?
It crossed my mind.
But I didn’t want the boys
to see any more ugliness
in this world
than they already have.
I hear you, but next time…
I stare at the words in my text
after Mia signs off.
I didn’t want the boys
to see any more ugliness
in this world…
Is that what motivates my father’s
decision to spare Davy and Trent
the truth?
any more ugliness
in this world
LATE NIGHT REALIZATION
Last thing before dropping into bed
I notice the to-do list from yesterday
on my desk, half buried.
Practice
at the top of the list
didn’t happen
just one week before the recital,
because
a walk in the park,
a singing soccer ball,
protection from danger,
shepherds and angels…
top priorities
in this present life
happened.
NIGHT WALK
Sleep is a long time coming
and I can’t stop picturing the cane
flying through the air.
On this moonless night
my room is particularly dark
but not dark enough.
I get out of bed,
slide into my slippers and robe,
rummage in my bottom drawer
until I find the eye mask Dad brought home
from a red-eye flight to a European music conference
last year.
I put it on,
feel my way to my door
and quietly open it.
The house where I’ve lived all my life
suddenly feels foreign,
and I am afraid
that I will miss the top step
at the end of the hall.
I trace my hand along the wall
outside my parents’ room
aware that my mother doesn’t need
one more night of disrupted sleep,
but I can’t turn back.
I feel a surge of relief when my outreached hand
finds the top of the stair railing
and I pause and grope with my foot
to find the top step
just like Trent did once.
Instinctively, I start counting the steps,
something I’ve never done before
and feel triumphant when I reach
number twelve and grope again
to confirm I’m on the hall floor.
Dad always complains that
we have too much furniture cluttering
the circular floor plan.
I shuffle toward the family room
picturing where the piano should be
and nearly call out when I slam into
an unexpected chair. Now I remember
Davy and Trent had moved some furniture
to play a game on the floor
and when I go around the chair,
I’m unsure where I am in the room.
Something crunches under my right foot.
/> I lean down, using both hands to sweep
back and forth on the rug until I find the small pieces
of whatever I stepped on.
I almost yank the eye mask off
out of frustration because now I’m afraid
I’ve broken something
I can’t identify.
I try to pick up all the pieces,
slide them into the pocket of my robe,
and determine to keep going until I have
figured out how to get to the kitchen,
but now I am totally disoriented.
I bump into more furniture,
nearly knock a lamp over
and finally get down on my hands and knees
and crawl until I feel the cool tile
of the kitchen floor.
I’m tired,
frustrated,
angry,
already close to tears,
and totally unprepared for the thud
my forehead makes when it bumps into
the corner of the island.
I roll over on my side
moaning, trying to stifle the self-pity sobs
and the agonized scream
against the unimaginable darkness
that lies in wait
for my brothers.
TIRED
“Insolent ideologues who insist
on immediate ideas after
a Christmas interlude
are idiots.”
We all look up from our lunches
at Kyle, the resident quiet guy
who has suddenly waxed so eloquent.
“You’ve been hanging out with Mia
too long,” Juan says, laughing
just as Mia lands at the table.
“You guys talking about me again?”
“I think Kyle here is so excited about
the research paper we all just got
slammed with that he’s turned
alliterative on us.
And we’re blaming you, Mia.”
Mia takes off with her usual
excitement over anything writing
while I stay out of the conversation.
The knot in my stomach tightens.
Preconcert nerves or something else?
Mia comes up for air and turns
toward me.
“You’re sure quiet today, Claire.
You must be in Kyle’s camp.
Hey, do you feel okay? You
look kind of puny
and besides that,
where’d you get that bump
on your forehead?”
“Yeah, I’m with Kyle and just
tired today. Never enough sleep
on vacation, you know what I mean?”
I pull my bangs down over the bump.
“Bumped into my closet door.”
SICK
I slog through the week
like a flower slowly wilting…from what?
heat
pesticide
drought
neglect
root rot
disease…
The cause is unknown
but the effect is real
and alarming, happening
concurrently
with almost daily seizures
of one brother or the other,
a mother struggling to stay afloat herself,
and a father being slammed against the wall
by an unreasonable administration.
Mia is ready to go with plans for the celebration
with Mrs. Shepherd ASAP. She tries
to get my attention more than once,
and I put her off with
headache or other ache
and “after the recital” excuses.
Juan, dear Juan,
gives me wide berth,
sending me texts to say
he’s cleared most of the hurdles
with teachers or school officials
about our raising funds
and not to worry.
Everyone is making a big deal
out of the recital—the local paper,
radio and TV,
morning announcements at school,
huzzahs in the hall from Tara
and her cheerleading gang
and as much as they can muster,
cheering on from Mom and Dad.
The day of the recital my throat
feels like sandpaper and my glands
are swollen. I feel like crap.
Mom shrieks with horror as she
takes a good look at me at breakfast,
finally surfacing from a dizzying marathon
of doctor’s appointments with the boys.
“Claire, dear God, you look awful. You’re
sick. Why haven’t you said something?”
She puts her hand to her mouth and
fights back tears. “Don’t even answer
that,” she says, feeling my forehead.
“I know it won’t do any good to tell
you we should postpone the recital,
but tell me honestly, can you get
through it in this shape?”
Dad whizzes in on the tail end of the
conversation, his tone a reflection
of his own hellish week. “She has no choice,
Janet, this is too big a deal. There
will be college scouts there, the works.
You can do it, Claire, we know you can.”
Mom’s pathetic half-apology,
Dad’s brusque dictum
leave me feeling nauseous.
The worst part of this morning
is the truth:
there is no comparison
between this challenge
and the one
my brothers
are facing.
I WILL DO THIS FOR THEM
By the time we get to the auditorium
I’m pretty sure fever is raging.
Monitoring temperature…pointless.
Water…small sips.
No bathroom on stage.
Thoughts spike like fever…
Davy’s seizures? What if I throw up, faint?
Flub in front of scouts?
Damn. This should be Juan’s show.
Get a grip!
Hold on. Seven other students. Regional winners.
Only their composition. Then me last.
State winner. Three other pieces.
Then “The Kite.” Hold on.
Backstage resting head
against cool cinder block
soothing self
into what? Delirium?
Another wave
of panic.
Davy and Trent…
I can do this for them.
Davy and Trent…
I can do this for them.
But of course!
I can do this for them.
I will do this for them.
The rest of their lives.
THE RECITAL
Davy and Trent.
Davy and Trent.
Davy and Trent.
My fingers bang the notes out.
I’m on remote control
from some far away galaxy.
I can feel the connection my
fingers are making with the keyboard
but the sound seems so far away.
Is the noise translating into music?
Is it making any sense?
“The Kite” swirls in my head.
Notes soar through the auditorium.
I ride them, feel the wind in my hair.
Davy and Trent.
Davy and Trent.
Davy and Trent.
but then
like a sudden fork of lightening,
a total disconnect.
Freeze. Stumble. Lost.
A thick blanket of fog
long enough to cause a deafening
pause.
Finally
air rushes back into my lungs
forcing me to breathe, breathe, breathe.
My thoughts clear enough
to push my fingers
back on the mark.
Keep going,
we’re almost there
and we,
my fingers, my throbbing head
reach the final crescendo
to resounding applause,
a standing ovation
that has never been
less well deserved.
I hang on to the piano, sliding
to the edge of the bench.
I shuffle a few feet to the microphone
where the emcee flashes a look of concern
without missing a beat,
makes the scholarship presentation,
explains the summer internship
to the audience,
and hands me the microphone
as if he expects it
or me
to drop.
I take a deep breath,
trying not to let my knees buckle.
I do the perfunctory thank-yous,
especially to my little brothers
in the front row.
More applause
and I faint
into the emcee’s arms.
EMERGENCY ROOM VISIT
When I come to on the backstage floor,
I hear:
“Clear some space, give her some air.”
“…let you know, dear
soon as I can.”
“Dad, is Claire going to die?”
Behind These Hands Page 17
