by Sarah Willis
My time is up. I get five minutes to write twice each day, following my shot. They won’t allow us phone calls. They say it makes us too emotional, and we must rest, rest, rest. I must admit, I am very tired. I love you. Say hello to the Murphys and the Burns. Give Edith a hug and a kiss for me.
Mother
For a moment I believe she will come back. My throat is tight and I can’t swallow. I tell myself not to be stupid. Preparing for the worst is easier than hope.
Megan stays in her room, coming out only to go to the bathroom. She refuses to speak to anyone. My father carries her dinner upstairs, and the clean plate down. My father says she will come out when she gets good and bored, and I think he really doesn’t know her very well. My bet is she’ll stay there for a month or more, until we have forgotten all about her.
In the middle of dinner, just the three of us sitting around the big dining room table, Robert throws a fit, demanding to call our mother on the phone. “I have to tell her something!” he shrieks. “I have to! Right now! I have to talk to Mommy. Right! Now! Right! Now! Right! Now!” He is choking on his tears and can only get one word out at a time. It is pretty pitiful to watch and makes me want to scream, but maybe not at him. My father puts down his fork and says, “If you do, it will upset her and make her sicker. Is that what you want?” It is a pretty mean thing to say and I almost go over to Robert to put my arm around him, but I don’t. The idea of my doing this makes me so sad that my eyes burn. It’s more than cooking a meal or folding laundry. If I comfort Robert in my mother’s place, who will comfort me?
Robert doesn’t answer. There is no answer. No one wants my mother to get sicker, but I bet he wants to call her all the same. He doesn’t eat anything else, not even dessert. He goes to bed early and so do I.
Every morning at seven my father goes outside to paint, then he comes in for lunch, takes a twenty-minute nap, then paints his couch picture: right now it is of a bouquet of yellow roses in a Ming vase. A lady sent a photograph of the Ming vase from some museum. Then he rests his eyes again for twenty minutes before he goes outside to paint until dusk. There is a perplexed look on his face whenever he looks at Robert or me, as if he has forgotten our names. It has made it easier on him that Megan stays in her room.
Today, when Rusty waves me over, I have on my shoes. I’m more than ready.
“Want to go to my fort?” he asks. His face is pink from the sun, and from a blush that spreads from his cheeks to his ears, and, I imagine, from his forehead to his toes.
It’s mid-July. The day is hot and clammy and only slightly cooler in the fort. It’s still morning; by afternoon the fort will be unbearable. It smells like mint, like I’m inside a mint candy. On the upside-down wooden crate there is a jelly jar with a fistful of cut mint and wild daisies. I’m touched at this effort, which makes me feel uneasy.
“It’s pretty hot,” he says. “Gonna be a real hot day.”
“You could take off your shirt,” I say.
“Uh, okay,” he says, as if this never occurred to him, as if he wasn’t thinking the same thing I am. He peels the white T-shirt off over his head slowly, since there’s not a lot of room in here. With his shirt off, I am warmer than I was a minute ago. I can feel my breath kind of hitch in my chest. His skin is as pale as my father’s canvas. I think of finger-painting his chest and laugh, a nervous laugh, a stupid giggle.
“What?” he says, sounding offended.
I wave a hand. “Nothing.” We are sitting on his sleeping bag, turned awkwardly toward each other. His nipples are the same pale brown of his lips, and there is absolutely no hair on his chest. His eyes look at my face, then uncontrollably downwards, then away, then back to my face. There is something so honest about him, like all of him is right here, on the surface of his pale skin; not that he is empty, but that he’s exposed, like a walking-around X ray, and I feel sorry for him and jealous of him at the same time.
I don’t know if I want to touch him or pinch him. “You know, it’s not fair guys can take off their shirts and girls can’t.” I say this as if I’m really mad, as if it were a debate in school, but he knows there’s only one correct answer.
“Well,” he says, shrugging with his bony shoulders, as if he really doesn’t care, as if he’s not trying so hard not to jump right out of his skin, “I’m not the law or nothing. You can take your shirt off. I won’t tell no one.”
“It is hot,” I say, just to keep this moment going a little longer; we’re both having fun. There’s a part of me that’s a bit worried about what’s going to happen next.
“Yeah, it’s hot. Go ahead.”
“Really?”
His reply seems to get stuck in his throat and finally he just nods.
“Well, okay.” I’m wearing a light-yellow blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons. I unbutton the buttons from the top, letting the blouse fall open bit by bit. I can see his chest go in and out with each breath. Trying not to bump anything, I shrug off my blouse as gracefully as I can. I am naked to the waist. This is completely different from when I used to go walking around naked in my house. My nipples get hard as he stares. I watch as they get pointy and pucker. I had no idea this would happen.
We look at each other. Now we have to pretend this is no big deal. He presses his mouth together as if he’s tasting his words. “Want a Twinkie?” he says.
I shake my head no. I feel like I have no time, like it’s already tomorrow, or next month, or my father is painting that last picture. As I look at Rusty, I can see my car driving away. I want desperately to be in this moment. I want him to touch me so I know it’s now.
“Do you want to touch them?” I ask, kindly, not a challenge, maybe a little bit desperate. I swallow. Trying to hold something down that wants to take off.
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “I do.”
“Okay,” I say, moving closer to him.
With his right hand he reaches out and holds on to my left breast, then squeezes it lightly, like checking to see if a pear is ripe. His other hand comes up and he cups both my breasts. If they made bras like his hands, they’d make a million dollars.
Then we’re kissing and he’s rubbing my breasts, and my hands are on his back, his sides, in his hair. There’s a lot of moving around, until we’re lying down on our sides facing each other. We’ve stopped kissing, just so we can breathe. I feel like I’m swimming in mint tea, the smell is so strong and the air so thick. Rusty kisses my lips once, then my neck, which is the nicest feeling in the world, and then he moves lower and kisses my breasts. He presses his mouth to my nipple and sucks on it. I think I’ll die right now, then I feel his hand, warm and firm on my crotch, and it’s all I can do not to moan out loud. It’s more than I can bear.
“Stop,” I say.
His hand comes away from my crotch and he looks up at me.
“I guess we better not do that yet,” I say.
“Not yet? Okay. Sometime, though?”
“Maybe,” I say. I want to, but I know what’s stopping me. It’s that my mother’s gone. If she were home, I’d keep going; I’d let Rusty do even more. She’d be washing the dishes, or milking the cow, and she wouldn’t suspect a thing. I could eat dinner with the memory of Rusty’s hand on my crotch, and I’d grin and answer my parents’ questions and feel I’d gotten away with something. But when I go home now, she won’t be there, and I’ll feel guilty.
“Let’s just take a nap,” I say, which is absurd, it’s only noon, but Rusty says okay. We shuffle around a little until we find a position that’s comfortable, both on our backs, my head on his shoulder. Then we both pretend to sleep.
About ten minutes later, when I begin to suspect Rusty doesn’t understand, he whispers my name so softly that it’s like a leaf falling. I pretend I didn’t hear it. He shifts slightly, waiting to see my response. I keep breathing slowly and steadily. Finally he moves his hand, as if he is just getting more comfortable. It finds that same bumplike resting spot on my crotch and settles in with just a slight pre
ssure, just the right pressure.
This is okay, I think. If I were really sleeping, like I could be, I wouldn’t know he was doing this. It’s a small excuse, but it will do.
Dear Mother,
I hope you’re feeling better. Everything is fine here. The Murphys say hello. It’s very hot and muggy. I water the garden every day. Robert is doing a puzzle and Megan is reading a lot of books. I am doing the cooking. I tried making your meat loaf but I couldn’t make the gravy right and we threw it away. The gravy. The meat loaf was okay. I just had a meat-loaf sandwich with ketchup. What do you eat?
I finished the crossword puzzle book and Daddy says he’ll take me to get a new one when we go to the store. I am going to make tuna noodle casserole tonight. There is a hummingbird that comes to the garden for the petunias every morning at ten. You would like to see it.
The Murphys are going to take us to church again tomorrow. I will pray for you, even though you don’t want me to. It can’t hurt and it might help. Helen says it will help, she is sure. She says she includes you in her prayers every night, which I’m sure does a lot more good than mine. Brenda has only two more weeks in summer school and she says she’s going to get a C in math, all because of me. She gave me the green plastic necklace she won at a fair. The one she always wears. So now I have to wear it. She says we’re blood sisters.
I miss you very much and hope you come home soon.
Love,
Tamara
I don’t tell her I have scabs on my arms and legs that look like the bumpy growths on trees. I don’t tell her that Megan hasn’t said a word in weeks, or that Brenda wanted to prick fingers and trade blood, but got scared I might have tuberculosis even though my test was negative, and I called her stupid and we’re not talking right now. I don’t tell her I knocked over her vase when I was sweeping, and that it broke into a thousand slivers. I don’t tell her that sometimes I imagine crawling out the attic window, naked, and standing on the sloped roof.
On Sunday, the Burns come to visit their farm. My father has gone out to the pasture to paint, even though he knew they were coming. My sister is in her room. My brother hovers around the dining room table like a moth afraid to land. The border and a small corner of the puzzle are finished. He doesn’t even attempt to put pieces together right now; he just stares at the pieces as if they are ancient hieroglyphics with a message just for him. He won’t let me touch the puzzle. Somehow he has lost the top of the box. It’s under my bed.
I am left alone with the Burns, to play my mother.
“Hello, Tamara,” Mrs. Burns says. Her skin is tan and wrinkled. She’s so eager to get into the garden her eyes flick over that way, then back to me, as if the garden might run off before she gets there.
“Hey, sweetheart!” Mr. Burns says, slamming his car door. Then his smile fades. “Oh,” he says, in a quieter voice, “I’m sorry about your mom. How’s she doing?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Well, well,” he says. “Good. You give her our regards, will you?” Kip rushes out from under the hydrangea bush, his feet slipping on the driveway’s pebbles. His tail wags fast but low, like a broom. “Oh, Kip, you rascal you,” Mr. Burns says, squatting down over his large belly to give Kip a bunch of rough buffs on his head, then a few solid pats to the old dog’s rear. “You being a good dog? Hey, Kip? He’s being a good dog?” Mr. Burns asks me. “Not causing you no trouble, is he?”
“No, no trouble.”
“He’s a good dog,” Mr. Burns says. There’s a moment of quiet now, while Kip just stands there waiting for God knows what and Mr. Burns looks at him, taking something in I imagine, some moment he can carry back with him that will assure him he’s doing the right thing by leaving Kip here. It takes a while, then Mr. Burns stands up and looks around. Kip figures that’s all he’s going to get and walks over to Mrs. Burns and sits by her feet, patiently, but not with hope.
“Where’s your dad?” Mr. Burns asks.
“Painting.” I shrug and smile, trying to look apologetic.
“Well, well,” he says. “I guess I’ll just get my chores done. Who’s milking the cow, now your mom’s … not here?”
“My sister,” I say, then remember she’s been in her room for days. Oh Jesus, I think. Edith will have exploded by now.
“Your sister?” he says, squinting his eyes, then looking over at Mrs. Burns. I can tell they are both thinking we are a bit strange, but I’m used to that. “I better go look and see.”
He heads up to the barn and I want to call him back I’m so scared what he might find. “Would you like some lemonade?” I yell, running up and cutting him off.
He just moves around me, patting me on the head. “No thanks. Don’t you bother none.”
“Mind if I look at the garden?” Mrs. Burns says.
I turn to look at her. “No, fine,” I say. When I turn back to the barn, Mr. Burns is gone. I tense, waiting for a shout.
Nothing happens, then I see him coming out of the barn. “Must be in the back pasture. I’m going to walk on up. You tell Mrs. Burns for me?”
“Sure,” I say. I quickly try to remember when I saw the cow last. I can’t.
“Oh, Tamara,” I hear from the garden. “Can you bring me a pot? These beans need to be picked.”
“Sure,” I say. I go in the house and get a pot. I don’t have to go through the dining room, but I do anyhow, just to swat my brother on the top of his head. “Get out there,” I hiss.
“Leave me alone, boogerhead,” he says.
“Did you milk the cow?” I ask.
“No way,” he says.
“Oh hell,” I say. I go back outside and up to the garden.
Mrs. Burns is on her knees, bent over the beans. “They should have been tied up,” she says, “but I guess you all have had your hands full. Think you could get me some stakes and twine?”
I do. We spend the next half hour tying up the beans, just motions, no words. We work well together, not like when I try to help my mother, who tells me what to do, then sighs when I don’t do it exactly as she would. When the beans are all picked, the pot is half full, and it’s a big pot.
“Boil the beans just for five minutes, then dump out the water and mix in some cream of mushroom soup,” Mrs. Burns says. “Cover it with some bread crumbs, then bake it for a half hour at 350 degrees. You getting along all right?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
“Shoot, I don’t think so,” she says. She looks at me and brushes her hands together to get off the dirt. “You must be scared, with your mother gone. The Bible says the Lord won’t give us more than we can bear, but I don’t know. I just don’t know about that anymore. Still, you are a young girl, and you’re tough, I can tell. You doing the cooking?”
I nod.
“Well, I’ll bring over a few easy recipes, and we can go over them.” She looks up at the house, her house. “I guess it’s stupid, me not wanting to go in there, but I don’t.”
We both stand there looking at the house as if it might do something. It’s kind of creepy. Finally, we turn away, and glance right into each other’s eyes. Somehow, that’s just as scary as thinking the house might shout “Boo!” I’m not sure if she likes me. I never cared much about an adult liking me before. I wish I could think of something nice to say. But she does.
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll come by and pick you up some afternoon and we’ll go to my sister’s, and we’ll bake all day, then you can bring the food back here and stick it in the freezer. Would you like that?”
Once again, I nod. I would like to go there, not that I want to cook really, but I guess I’d like her to like me. Then I remember Edith and I think when Mr. Burns finds her up in the pasture, dead or bloated in horrible pain, they will never speak to us again. I swear to myself that if Edith is still alive I’ll milk her every day myself.
Pressing against her thighs with her hands, Mrs. Burns stands up slowly. “You’re a quiet girl. I was too. You’ll get your voice soon enough. Mr
. Burns and I, we can talk up a storm sometimes, though you wouldn’t know it to look at us. I don’t know why I tell you, but you look like someone who needs to hear something. I just don’t know what.” She dusts off her pants. “Just let me know if I hit the right thing, will you?” She smiles at me and I smile right back. I want to thank her. I want to warn her about the cow, so it won’t come as a shock. I want to ask her about her son, if she thinks his ghost is somehow stuck here, like the things I’ve left behind. She heads back down to the car.
Still no sign of Mr. Burns. I ask Mrs. Burns if she’d like some tea or something. I see her thinking about it, like there’s a lot of thought to go into this question. “No,” she finally says. “Let’s sit in the barn.”
We go in the barn and sit on hay bales. I’ve got on shorts and the hay scratches my legs. A bird chirps once in the rafters, then it’s quiet. It’s so much cooler in here; the air feels lighter, crisper. I shiver, then rub my arms.
“You know when I decided to move out?” Mrs. Burns asks me. “I picked up a glass, just for some water. What could be more simple than that. But I knew, with that glass in my hand, that it was the very same one that Timothy drank his last glass of water out of. I remember taking it down to the kitchen a few days after the ambulance came. I washed it and put it back on the shelf. I was taught never to throw anything away, and I hadn’t learned then, like I have now, that I could change. So when I took that glass, to fill it up, it was the same one, because none of my glasses match, you might have noticed that. Well it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Still, I couldn’t throw it away, and I couldn’t drink from it, and I couldn’t put it back in the cupboard, ’cause Mr. Burns might use it and if I saw him do that it would spook me just the same, so I packed it up in a box. That’s when I packed up all Timothy’s things. Took me a few hours. Then when Mr. Burns came down from the pasture—he can always find something to do back there that sure takes him a long time—well, I told him we had to move out. And we did. Luckily my sister had just left her place. She had everything we needed, so we just took our clothes. It made it easier. We could pretend we were coming back.
