A. M. Jenkins
Beating Heart
Dedicated to the memory of
Bill Morris, a man with a heart
for both books and people
Contents
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by A. M. Jenkins
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
I doze
content
this house
is mine—
beloved, familiar.
I am
this house
the air is still
an unopened present
untouched
safe
wind rakes the roof tiles
plucks at the eaves
drops of rain
break
against the windowpane
run
formless
down
the
glass
scattered dreams
of
people
scurrying
about the house
flecks of dust
float in sunlight
warm,
silent
light makes its way
under
the
wide
porch roof
softened, blurred
gentled
by its journey
the wide hall
is flanked by rooms
washed in silence
voices
turn to echoes,
fading away
before
they can
become
words
pleasant
unpinned
the rooms and I
drifting
we have no names
This house
is mine
and
I am
its beating heart.
Evan is not impressed when he first walks into the house. There is no electricity; the only light comes in through the open door, and through the windows in rooms on either side of the hall. The wallpaper has been eaten away in patches. The wooden floors are gritty underfoot. Ivy has actually curled its way over a windowsill into the house, through one unevenly fitted sash. At the end of the hall, a wide staircase rises and seems to disappear into gloom.
Evan’s mother is brimming with quiet satisfaction, and Libby, who is five, prances with excitement. But Evan feels skeptical. “This is it?” he asks.
Mom nods. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Libby skips toward the stairs, craning her neck to look up. She runs her fingers along the dusty scrolled banister. “It’s like a castle!”
Mom smiles, then turns to Evan. “What do you think?” she asks him.
Evan looks around at the dirt, the dust, the whole derelict, falling-apart thing. “You want me to be honest?”
“Of course.”
“I think it’s the biggest dump I’ve ever seen.”
Mom shakes her head. “You’re not looking at the potential.”
“Mom.” Evan can’t believe she’s oblivious to what this place looks like. “The walls are peeling off.”
“Yes,” she says fondly. “You can see the original wallpaper. Very ornate, isn’t it? Doesn’t it make you feel like we’ve traveled back to the 1890s? We’re going to love living here.”
Evan gives a snort of disbelief.
“Whatever,” he says.
a voice
like a hand
shaking me
out of sleep
deep
raw
young
male
Has he come back?
the front
door
is
open
the air
moves
fresh
aroused
his voice has pricked
the layers of my peace
now bristles are
popping the seams
of my silence
sawdust
paint
clatters
metallic
shoutings
thuds
thumps
bangs
screeches
buzzes
my walls,
faded and friendly,
are stripped
ripped and gutted,
worse than naked.
I will not look.
my floors, my rooms, my companions, are littered with boxes weighted with furniture
I am unsettled
shelves strain under books
paintings like wounds on my walls
frames like scars
rugs smother my floors
more and more boxes
opening
spreading their contents like a stain
That voice again.
He is back.
Upstairs—
he will come upstairs
into his
room.
I will wait
for him here
where
floorboards
recall
furniture and footsteps
walls
remember
words and breath
air
retraces
sweat
and
kisses
he belongs here
So do I.
On official moving day the place still seems shabby to Evan, even though repairs have been going on for several months now and the house is supposedly ready. The air smells like paint, but underneath that is the musty odor of old wood, varnish, and neglect. Evan knows they don’t have nearly enough furniture to fill the house, and that many rooms will remain empty. He has a sneaking suspicion that Mom’s burned most of the divorce settlement getting this heap even halfway livable.
The movers are bringing the last load. Mom, Evan, and Libby come in together. Evan, ever practical, is carrying a box of his own belongings. Mom and Libby, empty-handed, prefer to let the movers do all the work.
Mom is the happiest Evan can remember. She stops in the hallway, hands on Libby’s shoulders. “Oh,” she says, “I can’t believe we’re finally here.”
She has not been like this in a long time, light and smiling and excited about the future. Evan knows she’s living out her lifetime fantasy of owning a big romantic old house. And the move doesn’t really affect him much—same school, same friends. Besides, the apartment was crowded, with the three of them. So Evan has decided to at least try to keep his thoughts to himself.
“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Mom asks Evan and Libby.
“It’s big!” Libby agrees happily.
Mom’s hand squeezes Libby’s shoulder. “It’s ours!” she says, the words soft and intense like a prayer. And then she grins. “Forget my bedroom,” she says. “I’m going to start on my office!”
Libby heads for the stairs. “I’m going to explore.”
Evan says nothing. Sometimes he thinks he’s the only adult in this family.
Mom notices Evan’s silence. She glances at him; his feelings are written all over his face. “You know, Evan,” she says with a sudden, detached calm, “if you come into this with a negative attitude, it’s going to feel like a negative experience. Can’t you try to project some positive feelings here?”
Evan’s used to counselor-speak. He’s grown up with it. He doesn’t want to crush his mother’s excitement. But he’s not going to pretend he’s in love with this place, either.
He answers in his own version of counselor-speak. “Just because I’m not as excited as you are doesn’t mean I’m negative. Can’t I be neutral
?”
“Of course.” Mom’s answer is automatic. “Feelings are always valid.” Normally she would pursue the conversation, try to unearth any of her son’s hidden emotions about this move. But her eyes are already traveling around the house again; she’s too happy to focus on anything else for long. “Oh, look!” she exclaims. “They’ve unboarded the windows on the landing! Isn’t that the most glorious stained glass you’ve ever seen? And it’s original to the house!”
Evan looks. The three windows, halfway up the stairs, have no pictures in them; they’re geometric grids with loops and whorls in reds, oranges, yellows, and browns—nice, and they do let more light in, but nothing to get ecstatic about, as far as he can see. He agrees anyway: “Yeah, it’s great.” And he starts up the stairs with his box.
his room
is not right
the walls, which should be
lush with scrolls and leaves,
are white
plain
the windows, which should be
thick with shutters and drapes,
are
bare
footsteps
on the landing…
up the stairs…
at the door…
Evan comes into the room, arms flexed, holding his cardboard box. He bends to put it down, straightens, stops to catch his breath and look around. The room is large enough to seem bare even with his bed and desk in it, as well as the boxes that the movers have already brought up. The walls are plain white, as he requested. The windows are empty, without shutters or curtains; he has not decided what he wants to do with them yet.
He is pleased with the windows, though: two on each of two walls, because this is a corner room. They let in lots of sun. He goes to one of the windows, opens it, and looks out over the backyard, which is fairly small and drops down almost immediately to a steep wooded bank overlooking the river.
Evan leans out farther, letting the breeze cool his face.
his hair is too dark
too oddly long
Why doesn’t he push it out of his eyes?
his shirt fits ill
no collar
no buttons
his arms bare past the elbows
his knees, his calves
so bare
shameless
the windows
let in clear light
he stands there,
a bright flicker
that
draws me
skin touched by sun
tiny golden hairs
a drop of sweat
brow, lashes
curve of jaw
so solid,
so intense—
muscles and bones
like
roots
binding
him to earth.
his breath stirs the air
pulls at me
in
out
in
again
the back of his neck
is warm
smells like wind and sun
tastes
like
salt
he shivers,
standing
in his warm
square of sunlight
Evan turns to contemplate the sunny room. It feels strange and foreign to him; not like home—not yet.
Well, he thinks, at least it’s big. No, what am I saying, it’s bigger than our whole apartment.
He moves to the boxes piled in the center of the room and begins to unpack. The first box is his “stuff” his posters, personal belongings. He only has a few posters to put up: a video-game advertisement, a scantily clad Budweiser Girl, a football schedule from his high school. He spreads them out, but the walls are still very bare. He takes out an old framed photo of himself and his father at an amusement park; it’s always been a favorite of his, but now he’s not sure what to do with it.
He and his father have had less and less contact since Dad left a year and a half ago. At first his father was SuperDad, coming every weekend and a couple of times during the week, taking Evan to ball games and movies and dinner. It took Dad a little longer than it took Evan to figure out that they didn’t really have a whole lot to talk about when the movies and ball games were over. And when the awkward pauses started outweighing the fun stuff, Dad just sort of ceased to come around.
It hurts in a way—but it also feels right. That’s because of Libby. She was hardly ever included in the father-son outings. Evan knew she was too little, wouldn’t have enjoyed it once she got there, would have whined and made everybody miserable—but still, he hated hearing her ask to come along and hearing Dad say no. It wasn’t exactly Dad’s fault; he had only so much free time, and Evan fit better into his activities. But now it feels more like Libby and Evan are equal, as far as Dad is concerned.
Evan puts the picture aside and pulls out the shoebox in which he keeps things of sentimental value; it contains ticket stubs; notes from girls; a poem he wrote for English that he worked hard on, for once—the teacher read it to the class; a picture of himself and his girlfriend, Carrie, at junior prom; a picture of his grandparents; and a baby toy that he doesn’t want anyone to know he kept.
As he’s putting this shoebox in a drawer, Libby comes in without knocking. She does that a lot since Mom quit her job, but Evan says nothing; on another day he might be irritated, but today, for some reason, he almost likes the way she wants to be with him, the way she feels at home wherever he is.
Libby walks over to the back windows and leans out, just as Evan did a moment before. “Ooh, you can see all the way down to the river from here.”
Evan has decided that he likes this room, or rather, the size of it. He’s enjoying filling out his own space however he wants, and he’s in a better mood about the house. “Back in the old days, they didn’t have air-conditioning,” he tells her. “Rich people built their houses up here because it was cooler—see, the breeze comes up from the river.”
“Are we rich?”
“I wish.” He thinks how much it must be costing to get this hulk fixed up, and figures it’s a good thing Libby likes peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches better than steak. “What can you see from your window?” he asks Libby, opening another box.
“The driveway.”
“Come on,” he says, “you can see more than that.”
She’s still leaning out the window, taken by the view. “Umm, the house next door.”
“That’s not a house,” Evan informs her. “It’s a law office.” That’s another one of the things Evan doesn’t like about this place—it’s not a regular neighborhood, but the remnants of one that has been taken over by businesses. “Anyway, you can’t complain,” he tells Libby. “You had first choice of rooms.”
“I like my room,” Libby says. “I just wish I could see the river.”
Her voice is plaintive. Evan pauses to look at her; she’s always been a bouncy, upbeat kid, but ever since Dad left she seems to get sad sometimes. It makes him mad at Dad, although the truth is, he could see why Dad might not be as eager to take Libby to the playground as he was to go with Evan to a hockey game. Evan knows now, from relentless boring experience, that there’s nothing fun about sitting around watching a five-year-old swing on a swing set.
Beating Heart Page 1
