by Micol Ostow
that leila and shelly melt down
from salvaged scraps of store-bought bars.
the wash water is always cold,
always a slap,
a gasp,
a breathless shock that catches,
clenches
at the base of my stomach.
it grabs me deep,
takes me by surprise,
each time.
each time,
i plunge my hands into the icy suds
and contract,
instantly bracing against the
sharp awakening.
each time,
i fold in upon myself,
shrink at least nine sizes.
i reel.
each time.
but.
i always regain my footing quickly.
always recoil,
rebound.
the soapy slop is an alarm,
a siren,
a knife slipped smoothly
into the soft, hollow space
below my rib cage.
it rouses me.
methodically,
almost rhythmically, i rise,
step back.
begin the baptism.
again.
always.
i douse the articles of clothing,
one at a time,
lower them each in turn
into the shallow, murky pool,
watch them darken and swell
with saturation.
i press,
i knead,
i twist,
enjoying the sensation of frigid backsplash
against the goosefleshed surface of my
bare arms.
i have discovered:
i like to do the
washing.
the process is
an exercise in
zen.
clarity.
purity.
i like things
clean.
my favorite part is when i am finally finished,
when i’ve draped the clothes—
my family’s clothes—
across the low-slung line to dry.
when i can step back, proud and tired,
squint,
see them sway in the sunlight
like hollowed-out ghosts,
like outlines.
like suggestions
of something more,
something whole.
something full.
supple.
something maybe
perfect.
i have even removed
most of the blood from that night.
from shelly’s fever dream.
a slight stain remains,
a smudge,
a photo negative of what was lost.
some things can’t be scrubbed out.
and shelly spends ever-increasing time on her own,
nestled,
motionless,
curled beneath new bedsheets,
contemplating something more.
something whole.
something full.
supple.
something maybe
perfect.
a slight stain remains.
some things can’t be scrubbed out.
fever dreams aside,
we don’t produce much washing.
the family. doesn’t.
despite how full to bursting life on the ranch can be.
leila and the other sisters would just as soon go bare, natural,
exposed
so that once a week, i am mostly sorting through the pockets
of Henry, junior, and the other men
who come around.
sometimes, i find things. in the washing.
once a week, while sifting through the dirty laundry,
i find things. i come across all sorts of interesting things,
while i do the washing.
you wouldn’t believe the sorts of things that some people waste.
the things that people sometimes throw away.
for example:
it is an overcast morning—
i don’t know what day it is,
haven’t known the day or date
since Henry first stumbled upon me back in the haight
(we have no use for calendars, here at the ranch)—
but.
it is morning, because that is part of the routine,
my routine,
for laundry.
morning. is.
so.
it is morning,
and i am awake.
ready to begin the weekly baptism.
i shake out junior’s pants legs,
reach inside his pockets to turn them inside out,
and a long, smooth, glossy object flies out of a pocket and lands at my feet.
the object beckons like a jewel;
i have a flash of muddled recognition.
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i bend at the waist, crouch down,
grab at it, run my fingers along cool steel grooves.
a knife.
a switchblade,
big, bigger
than any i’ve seen before.
the knife is scratched but sturdy,
solid against the flat face of my palm.
when i press against its release,
a swath of sharpened metal
kisses the thinnest part
of my skin.
i wonder, briefly,
what junior plans to use it for.
but of course, i can’t ask.
will not ask.
of course, there is no why.
not here.
not ever.
so. i don’t ask.
i turn the blade again,
shudder to see its lengthy surface gleam.
it is big, bigger.
it is a threat.
and i am afraid.
i set the knife aside to be
returned.
and i worry.
later, after lunch, i track junior down.
i tug at his shirt,
reluctantly hand him back the knife,
push the thought of its cocked,
spring-loaded potency
to the far corners of my mind.
i tamp down the worry.
the fear.
the fray.
junior peers at the knife,
arches an eyebrow,
purses his lips.
smiles
with recognition.
“that ain’t mine,” he says, grinning.
“it’s Henry’s. i was just borrowing it.
Henry wanted me to get a feel for it,
to get ready for helter-skelter.
“it’s Henry’s,” junior says.
“you can return it
to Him.”
so
i do.
i return it—
the knife—
to Henry,
without another
word.
without a sound.
without question.
but not
without
not
without
the cold,
clenching shock
of
slowly growing
fear.
not
without
wondering
still.
worry
it has been thirteen days.
thirteen days since we cleaned, since we made the ranch
thirteen days since i
first contemplated,
first considered.
first thought about
connections
thirteen days since junior
first let spill,
first whispered to leila,
first told the truth about
Henry’s savage past-life,
His mirror-self,
His muddy
underside.
His brushes with
the law.
the story goes:
when Henry was still small,
still a boy,
His mother traded Him
for a pitcher of beer.
a pitcher.
of beer.
you wouldn’t believe the sorts of things
that some people
throw away.
but.
there was rescue.
Henry had a savior:
a man. an uncle.
and Henry was rescued.
but.
when Henry’s uncle returned Him to His mother,
she tossed Him right back out onto the street.
slapped Him straight back down onto the trash heap.
she didn’t want motherhood.
didn’t want a son.
didn’t want Henry.
to hear junior tell it, Henry
learned quickly, adapted,
realized how to take the things
that weren’t on offer.
how to fend for Himself.
how to feed the yawning want.
how to fill in the cracks,
the fissures,
the rivulets.
the fault lines.
but.
i think:
He never did make Himself
whole again.
and now.
His connections, His ties—
they teem,
they twist,
they tangle.
and i worry:
that
they spoil.
they sour.
they shrink.
they fray.
they
decay.
and we,
the family:
we burn.
slowly.
silently.
but ever steadily.
we fracture
and
split
at the
seams.
i worry:
that
He cannot bind us,
can’t piece us together,
keep us together.
can’t ever make us
whole or perfect.
i worry:
that
this latest rejection is gravity,
a magnetic charge, pulling Henry down.
and that we are tumbling after Him.
that we are all
collapsing in on ourselves
like a collective dying star.
junior speaks of payback,
of making a point,
of making ourselves heard.
leila has ideas of
how to get the world’s attention.
how to spark.
Henry’s half-life has an orbit
that cannot be
contained.
i worry:
that
Henry cannot restrain His infinite want.
cannot still the undertow within.
that Henry
wants
to spread chaos—
violence and bloodlust—
in His name.
and that we
are all of us
drowning
together.
thirteen days.
in a place where time is not assigned.
where hours and errands are
empty
and open.
thirteen days is enough time
to feel the slow, stinging drip,
the pinprick,
the heartbeat of a measured poison.
the promise, the premise,
of deadly intent.
thirteen days feels
eternal
when you
are starting
to
unravel.
to
fray.
and to feel
afraid.
blood
my sister, shelly, always knows just what it is that i need.
so:
when i worry, i seek her out.
she is. my sister.
and she always knows
just what it is i need.
she knows, shelly does—
how to quell the constant fear.
how to quiet the clawing fists of doubt.
how best to bind the fraying edges
of my shattered reflection.
her mouth is a song,
a prayer.
a promise
of what infinity means.
of family.
and so:
tonight,
i seek her out.
i search for her.
but she is not at dinner.
she is not at dinner, which is unlike shelly,
my sister,
my shadow-self of bottomless hunger,
of cavernous wants.
of infinite needs.
she is missing.
she is gone.
and i:
worry.
when others ask,
i play at casual.
i pretend to know just what exactly shelly is up to.
just where she could possibly be, if not busily feeding the
that i,
her sister,
know to be her empty places.
her hollow spaces.
that i know to be her half-life.
i play at casual.
i arrange a spoonful of rice in an artful heap in a bowl. i tilt toward the campfire. i drink down the flame.
i balance a serving spoon on my hip.
“oh, shelly?” i ask,
nonchalance draped like a cloak
across my shoulders.
“she’s fine.
she went to sleep early.
she’s fine.”
and yet:
a fist clenches forcefully
at the back of my throat.
the flesh of my arms prickles.
i toy with the word, with the smooth, cool syllable,
roll it on my tongue:
“fine.”
shelly’s bowl, the bowl i have fixed for my absent sister,
is balanced against my jutting hip bone.
my eyes dart nervously.
i make my way to the last place i saw her:
the general store.
(but actually, that was quite a few hours ago.)
i worry.
i rap, apprehensive, on the splintering door frame.
no one approaches Henry’s domain without express invitation, of course.
i know this.
this, i know.
but i am worried.
a beat.
only the sound of my insides,
the rhythm of my blood in my veins
to soothe me.
i breathe:
in.
and out.
the door swings open.
junior peeks out, his forehead sagging, his eyes vacant.
“mel,” he says. “come in.”
so i do.
i step past him, breathe in. shrug my shoulders, draw my aura
up about my collarbones. straighten my spine,
harden my imagined outer shell.
“i was looking for shelly.” i thrust the bowl toward him.
he takes it in, gaze flickering. doesn’t take it.
instead just points for me
to set it down on a warped, uneven shelf.
so i do.
junior nods shortly, curves a hand aro
und my elbow.
leads me gently
toward a fringed silk curtain.
as i pass, i spot
the metal lockbox where leila keeps our valuables.
propped open, yawning,
coins, cards, trinkets, strewn.
and perched atop
a shriveled clump of dirty dollar bills
a scrap of paper
covered in scratchy scrawl.
but before i can wonder
i am ushered behind the curtain
and the veil is
lifted.
i blink.
i catch.
i swoon.
i sway.
junior braces me, bolsters me against his frame, his arm cold and solid,
like mechanics.
like the undertow.
i breathe.
the blood is everywhere.
the air smells of copper and cloying.
the blood. is.
everywhere.
i spot a mattress on the floor;
the same space where Henry and i so often fuse our fires,
so readily collapse our hollow places.
so readily devour each other.
so eagerly swallow each other whole.
a jumble of sheets are clustered in a tangle,
soaked with sweat and blood.
shelly lies atop the mattress, splayed, struggling.
soaked with sweat and blood.
everything inside me screams.
she is my sister.
she is my shadow-self.
and she is
broken.
bleeding.
i rush to her side, kneel next to her.
fight against the roiling bile.
no matter:
she is lost to a fever dream.
i offer her a kiss on the forehead.
inhale the sheen of her sweat
as her body throws sparks.
junior leads me back outside,
back to where
cool air kisses
my slick flesh.
“she lost the baby,” he says,
as deep inside of my core, a
hair trigger releases.
“she lost the baby,” he says again,
softer,
“but
“she’ll be okay.”
lost
a beat.
i breathe:
in.
and out.
i reel.
i retch.
my hollow places clench.
but unlike shelly,
i am fine, truly.
surely not soaked in blood,
not slick with bright, loud pain.
no.
not like shelly. my sister.
unlike shelly,
my own fever dream is imagined,
ersatz.
my own flesh is cool to the touch.
unlike shelly,
my own bones are sheer,
sheet-glass icicles.
my pulse pounds,
and sturdy fingertips close across
my shoulders:
Henry.
the force of his touch upends me,
sends me staggering.
i stumble to my knees.
force back a sob. choke.
“she’s going to be fine,” He says.
