A Room on Lorelei Street

by Mary E. Pearson

  “Hello,” she says. His ponytail is a full six inches longer than the last time she saw him. A mere nub before, it is now long enough to swing right into Grandma’s disapproval. It warms Zoe. Wrinkles have grown out from his eyes, and stubble on his chin glistens in the sun.

  “Been a while,” he says. She is thankful for his presence, but his voice chills her. It is forever stamped with the nauseating scent of sweet mixed bouquets, carnations and amaryllis wilting in afternoon heat, forever married with the sound of whimpers and echoes and a spade turning over soil. His voice, genuine, warm, but now tainted by a day he had nothing to do with, except for the exchange of a few words.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Two years, almost. Not since…” She doesn’t finish.

  He nods. “Yeah. Not since.” He takes her cue, and she is more grateful now than she has been in the last two years that he is the one who preached at Daddy’s funeral. Grandma had howled. “He ain’t nothin but a pot-smokin’ hippie. Never even seen this side of a seminary. What will folks think? It ain’t decent.” But Mama had nodded approval. Daddy had always liked Quentin. Said he was the real deal. And Mama couldn’t be swayed. Aunt Patsy’s baby brother would see Daddy off to the Great Beyond. “If that’s where he’s going,” Grandma grumbled.

  Zoe looks into Quentin’s face. She reads it, or tries. She doesn’t know about real deals, but if a face can be true, Quentin’s is. He may not be a real preacher with a fancy seminary degree or proper pastor clothes, but he is real enough that Ruby First Baptist hired him on as an assistant pastor. He lives in a tiny travel trailer in the parking lot and serves as a pastor on call. He was on call the night they found Daddy.

  “You’re lookin’ good, Zoe. Life treatin’ you well?”

  Her fingers curl into a fist to hide her nails. “Well, enough,” she says. The words sound whiny, and she tries to lighten them with a smile that comes too late.

  “Considering?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve had a hard time of it, is all. Lots of growing up for your years.”

  There has been no growing up, she thinks. “I’ve always been grown up.”

  He nods. “Yeah. Guess you have. But you’ve done good.” Good. The words feel like a warm bath on a cold day. She remembers he was kind with Daddy, too. He said nice things he didn’t have to say. Words rolled from his lips and hemmed in her tears as she sat in the first pew. Kind words that wrapped her up warm and hopeful and made her think on the good. But why?

  “Two years too late to ask a question, you think?” she asks.

  “Nothing’s ever too late.”

  Really. In what world? She looks away and squints at the pool in the distance. She shades her eyes like she is more interested in splashing and boys’ belly flops, like her question is an idle thought that is casually slipping out. “You really think he’s in heaven—Daddy, that is—or was that just preacher talk for a grieving family? He never went to church, you know, and he died dead drunk. Doesn’t sound like heaven material to me. And besides that, he—” And it has all run out and doesn’t sound casual at all.

  “You just now getting around to critiquing my sermon, Zoe, or you got something else on your mind?”

  “Nothing else,” she says. Nothing else except Mama.

  Quentin eases her hand down and swings her gently to face him. “We don’t know nothin’ about that moment he went to meet his maker, Zoe. Nothin’, you hear me? No one was there. I think when we get to heaven there’s goin’ to be a whole lot of gasps and whoops over who’s there and who’s not. Lots of surprises. I always think on that poor bastard hangin’ up ’side Jesus. One minute a sinner and the next walkin’ in Paradise. Bet none of them Pharisees could’ve guessed it. Yep. A whole lot of surprises, ’cause only the Lord knows the heart of a man. Ain’t our job to be second-guessin’.”

  He talked a good talk. She knew at least he believed it, and maybe that was all she needed to hear. Possibility. Someone’s possibility. Someone believing in someone else. Quentin believing in Daddy. Daddy who was dead. Daddy who had believed in her. Daddy who talked a good talk, too. Special, Zoe. Stars, Zoe. Talk. Only talk and nothing more.

  But it was enough. At least, then it had seemed enough.

  “Gifts!” Aunt Patsy calls. She unloads armfuls of offerings for Kyle onto the picnic table. “Gifts!” she calls again like she is ringing a bell. Other activities are pushed aside, and feet move, gather up like a magnet slowly toward the patio. Norma relays the call, “Gifts,” and claps her hands, and the boys are bounding out of the pool and the sky is a quilted flash of towels and hoots.

  Zoe turns obediently with Quentin and moves toward the patio, knowing it will bring her elbow to elbow with days of worry and years of wanting.

  She hears the murmurs, the heavy footsteps of Grandma and Mama behind her, muffled, shuffling, a low sound no one else can hear but Zoe. A whisper of sound that says, Run Zoe, don’t look back, Zoe. She picks up her pace and smiles as she steps onto the patch of concrete that will hold them all for the next thirty minutes.

  Zoe holds out her arms to Uncle Clint and then greets Evan and Odell, and then teases with Wain, and the movement is all so carefully orchestrated, so full and busy, that no one notices the gulf between her and Grandma and Mama. It is amazing, she thinks, how simple appearances can be created—a rush, a smile, a new coat of paint, a slow, calm voice, a hug, a new dress—a resolve to keep out questions and cling to secrets.

  The boys crowd at the picnic table; the adults scatter in rickety lawn chairs around them. Zoe stands, leaning against the awning pole, holding her distance from both. Uncle Clint warns them that the barbecue will be ready in twenty minutes, and Aunt Patsy clucks that the barbecue will wait for gifts.

  “Zoe, sit here,” Norma offers, patting the arm of the chair next to her. “There’s plenty of room.” But there is an empty chair next to Mama, too. Why didn’t Mama pat her chair? Why does someone she barely knows notice she is standing, but Mama does not?

  She wants to look at Mama. Glare straight into her hazy, indifferent eyes and spit words into her face, but instead she smiles at Norma and says, “Thanks, but I think I’ll stand for a while.” And the smoothing over, her forced smile and the appearance of contentment, simmers so hotly inside her she doesn’t even see the first few gifts that Kyle opens.

  And then a card is opened and a twenty-dollar bill falls to the ground. “It’s from Aunt Nadine!” he announces as he snatches it up. Mama smiles. Grandma grunts. Aunt Nadine, the only one smart enough to escape this misery, Zoe thinks. So far away, but still remembering Kyle and her on their birthdays. Letting go, but maybe not completely.

  Paper flies, and then another box. “This one’s from Mama,” he says, and Zoe shifts feet, stands up straighter, wondering at the large box, the very large box wrapped so carefully. Mama’s shaking hands could never have creased the corners so sharply. Not Mama’s shaking, fumbling, never-there hands. The details reach out at her, the ribbon, the card, the little squares of tape that hold it all together so nicely. But Kyle is beyond details and rips away paper, barely reading the card, and beams as he throws stuffing away and lifts a skate-board from the box.

  “Yes!” he yells. “This is it! This is the one!” He runs to Mama and throws his arms around her neck. He kisses her cheek, and she nods. Her eyes blink. She pats his back.

  And Grandma smiles.

  Grandma, watching what she has created, smiles and takes a satisfied drag of her cigarette and blows the smoke over her shoulder. “And don’t forget the paperwork in the box, Kyle. Them wheels come with a guarantee. Your mama got you the best.”

  Kyle spins the wheels and ignores the guarantee. The wheels whir a smooth, buttery buzz that saw right into Zoe’s bones. “Can I go try it on the front drive?” he asks.

  But there is still one present. Zoe’s present.

  “One more gift,” Aunt Patsy says. “Then you can go.”

  Kyle gives the wheels one more spi
n and then sets it aside. Buzz. The wheels spin. He rips open the awkwardly shaped package. Buzz. Zoe sees the details, the crumpled corners, the gaps, and the ribbon that doesn’t match. Buzz…run, Zoe…hide, Zoe…you are nothing, Zoe.

  But it is the Dragonslayer. The Dragonslayer 1000. For her Kiteman. She stands her ground and forces a faint smile to cover her needy expectation. She works this leg, that arm, to hold them just right to show she is confident because she knows. More than anyone, she knows.

  The kite is revealed. It shimmers, its green more brilliant than a hummingbird’s throat. Its carefully sewn flaps begging the wind. Its reel made to whir more loudly than a thousand spinning wheels. Norma oohs. Uncle Clint and Evan reach out to touch. Quentin nods approval.

  But Kyle. It is a glance shorter than a breath—a sideways glance to Wain and a smile that comes a blink too late—that tells Zoe.

  She doesn’t know.

  And even as she hugs Kyle and says “you’re welcome,” she knows he is not her Kiteman. He is not four years old anymore, he is eleven, for God’s sake. Eleven, and he has moved on to skateboards. He moved on. And you didn’t know, you stupid shit, you didn’t know.

  But Grandma did.

  Twenty-Three

  Wind blows warm.

  Good-byes circle around on a dust cloud and come back again.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Night.”

  Iridescent wings bat the porch light. Chirps jump across quiet. The sky splits wide with black and silver. Kyle’s day. Kyle’s evening. All Kyle’s. As it should be.

  Car doors slam. Quentin gone. Evan and Norma. Gone. An evening. Gone.

  Uncle Clint in the doorway. Aunt Patsy on the bottom step. Kyle kissing Grandma’s cheek. The wind swirling. The chirps gathering. And Mama still inside. In the bathroom. Zoe knows. Not to pee. A pill-popping break. You can drink less if you chase it with a pill. It doesn’t matter what kind. A pain pill. A Valium. Mama has them all. All prescription so it’s okay. Okay. Everything is fucking okay. The whole day has been fucking okay. And no one has asked. Not Mama. Four days she has been alone. But it is not about Zoe. It never has been. Four. But Mama leaves for the rest room to take care of her needs, but never pauses to check on Zoe’s. Not a single pause to see if Zoe has eaten, if she has slept, if she has breathed.

  And now Kyle is kissing Zoe’s cheek. Holding her. And the day that wasn’t swells inside her. It swells with its nothingness, and Kyle is running back up the porch steps.

  Gone.

  “Night,” Aunt Patsy says. “Thanks for helping with the dishes,” she says. “Thanks for coming,” she says. And though Uncle Clint still fills the doorway, the trailer door wedged open, the door on the day is closing, and Zoe is splitting inside with need. It races to her fingertips like electricity and back up again to pinch off her throat. She trembles. It squeezes her spine. Invisible. The door is closing. You ain’t hardly family at all.

  “Night,” she says as Mama stumbles back through the door. “Night,” she says again as the warm breeze lifts the hair at her neck. And only a sliver of the day is left open when she comes eye to eye with Mama slurring her way down the steps, eye to eye with Grandma grabbing Mama’s arm, and the need pulls at her chest, pulls at her shoulder, pulls at the purse resting against her hip, and Zoe shakes it open, before she knows it, she is shaking her purse open so keys rattle. She pulls out her lighter and then a cigarette. The flame ignites with a single strike, and she holds it to the shaking end of the cigarette. She pulls hard. Slowly. She breathes in deeply and exhales. Her smoky breaths stop the good-byes. She lowers her hand to her side, fingers of smoke weaving around her. She tries to hold it easily, but her hand shakes, like all the need and trembling is pouring out through one little cigarette. But it doesn’t matter. Every eye is on her. Before the door closes. Every eye looks.

  “Zoe?” Uncle Clint says.

  Aunt Patsy stares, her mouth open and silent.

  Grandma’s lips pull tight.

  “Sugar,” Mama says. Clarity. Crumpled eyes.

  “This?” She waves the cigarette, and forces a smile. “I’ve been smoking for years. I can’t believe you never guessed. But I’ve decided I’m tired of secrets. No more secrets.”

  Uncle Clint steps out of the doorway. “But, Zoe—”

  She turns. “Night,” she says. A corner of control. The evening is over because she has made it so. “Night,” she calls over her shoulder.

  And the jumble of voices at her back melt with the evening wind and ribbon away to nothing.

  She is empty.

  Or is it full?

  Lightness.

  She is full up lightness.

  Twenty-Four

  “Lorelei,” she whispers.

  It rolls back to her again and again, like a leaf on a gentle tide. It comes back, wet, sweet, easy, to be whispered again. She wonders at such a little word that begs to be said aloud. Three little syllables that make a song. Complete.

  She whispers it again, sends it up like a compass, a beacon, as she navigates aisles with a shopping cart that clack, clack, clacks to one side with a jittering wheel.

  She stops in the jelly aisle. Rupert’s Deluxe Concord is endless black-purple and promises satisfaction or your money back. The twelve-ounce jar mimics cut-glass and costs $3.89. It would look pretty on her hutch. But not $2.40 prettier than the Food Star brand that is a little less purple and a whole lot bigger. She slips the fat Food Star jelly jar into the cart next to a ninety-nine-cent loaf of lighter-than-air bread. Peanut butter is next, and she ignores all the claims and offers on the jars—only the price matters. Food Star wins again.

  She passes the milk case and pauses. She looks at the little quart cartons. She imagines a glass of cold milk with a peanut butter sandwich. But she has no glasses. And one more item—even a carton of milk—would be too risky. The damn tampons are taking up half her grocery budget, but those she can’t do without. She felt the cramping coming on at work, and only two battered tampons lurk somewhere in the bottom of her purse. Four fifty-nine for one stupid box. Even for the Food Star brand. She passes on the milk and picks up a ninety-nine-cent, two-roll package of toilet paper—on special. God bless Food Star.

  She checks out. The $9.96 total is four cents under budget. The rest of her Sunday tips will go toward her transportation fee. The sleazebag was generous again. She is almost beginning to like him, in a gagging kind of way. She drops the four pennies change loosely into her purse. They clink against her hairbrush like a metal ball in a pinball machine, a clink clink, clink that harmonizes with the word still playing behind her eyes. Lorelei. She gathers the bag of groceries to her arms.

  “Pardon?” the cashier says.

  “What?” Zoe asks.

  “Sorry, I thought you said something,”

  Zoe pauses, crawls out of her thoughts…and smiles. “Yes, I probably did.”

  And she leaves, the brown paper bag tucked snugly against her chest.

  Twenty-Five

  Her fingers glide over the wide arm of the Adirondack chair. The purple enamel is uneven. She feels faint indentations where previous layers had peeled, were sanded, and then were painted again. Season by season. A bit of yellow peeks out here, a bit of orange there, but it is mostly purple now, smooth, cool purple. She leans back, closes her eyes, swims in the sounds of Opal’s garden. For the first time she feels the teetering edge of autumn. A smell. A chill. The long glint of sun that seems more copper than gold. A difference that is hard to name when it is only just coming on. But it is there. And then, she thinks, it is not. It is once again the last days of summer, her back damp against the slats of wood. Summer, autumn. Autumn, summer.

  It’s a dance, she thinks. This letting go.

  Coming. Going.

  Back and forth.

  This passing of one season to the next.

  How long does it last? But she has never had time to think about it before. She has never had time to sit in a purple Adirondack chair in the shad
e of a drooping elm and notice. She doesn’t know how long this holding on and letting go lasts.

  “Here we are,” Opal calls across the yard. She carries a tray. Zoe sits up. It is awkward being served, a role she is not used to. She only came to the garden to explore, a time to wind down after tennis practice and see what lay behind the city of bird feeders. She followed the short path of broken flagstone to the canopy of elms with two purple Adirondacks resting beneath them. It looked like a shady hideaway and the thought made her smile—maybe it should be called Opal’s Lorelei Hideout. Opal had come bustling through with a small basket draping her arm, and when she saw Zoe, she squealed and said, “Perfect! Perfect! Sit! I’ll be right back! Sit, now! I knew this would happen!” And she hurried to the house. The words sounded like orders, but the tone was joy.

  Zoe has been waiting for twenty minutes now—maybe more—but she doesn’t mind. The yard, the hideaway, is another world. Slow, apart, an atmosphere all its own. No grass grows below the trees, only a scattering of silver-tipped leaves at her feet. Thin shafts of light break through in half a dozen places, freezing particles of dust in their beams. Gravity doesn’t exist in Opal’s Lorelei Hideout.

  Now Opal comes, full-faced with a smile and wrinkles, and Zoe notices the limp, an ever-so-slight heaviness to the right leg. I should get up, she thinks, but she stays. She is like a frozen particle, caught in Opal’s beam.

  “This is it,” Opal says, setting the tray on a slatted table between them. “Last of the season! No more blackberry tea till next summer. I must’ve picked the last berry just as you walked up—just enough for two glasses. Fate, I think. You believe in fate, Zoe?”

  She hands Zoe a droplet-covered glass filled with ice cubes and lavender tea.

  “I don’t know,” Zoe answers. She is not even sure what fate is.

  Opal lifts the other glass, and Zoe thinks Opal is lifting possibility as much as tea. She has come to read eyes, too—at least Opal’s—and they say as much as her words.