Some Things That Stay

by Sarah Willis

  I get out of the car. My father hollers my name, expecting me to walk away, cause a scene. But all I do is open the back door of the car and climb in next to my sister. I don’t want to sit next to my father anymore. I have this feeling I might yank the wheel as he’s driving. I can feel it in my arm. It’s not that I want to. Sometimes I do things I don’t want to, but not this time. I am going to protect myself from me, until I calm down. And then I’m going to do something. I just don’t know what.

  My father starts the car and we drive home.

  It’s five-thirty when we get back to the farm. I’m hungry, but it’s not food I want. Besides, the idea of sitting down at the table with my father makes me sick. I actually liked him for a few minutes. I’m so stupid. He’ll never change. We’ll never change. I’ll never change. I want to reach up and tear at my hair. I can remember that bright, sharp, hot pain that took my breath away last time I pulled some hair out. It’s a stunning feeling, so quick it’s shocking that it goes away. It makes my heart beat hard. It makes me feel good. Tough. Alive. But then I remember last night, kissing Rusty, how my heart was beating then too, how it lasted and lasted until we stopped, and then it stayed with me. I get out of the car and walk across the road. I don’t look back but I know my father is watching me, trying to decide to call me back or not. It’s easier not to. He doesn’t.

  Brenda tells me Rusty’s in his fort. She asks if she can come along and I tell her no. Her bottom lip is about to stick out when I tell her I’ll pay her a buck to keep Robert away from the fort—play marbles with him, anything. A buck sounds good to her. She skips across the road calling his name in a nasal singsong voice. I figure I have about an hour before they both decide to sneak up on us.

  When I pull aside the shower curtain Rusty is sitting on the sleeping bag with a big grin on his face. He must have heard me coming.

  “Hi. How’s your mom?”

  “Not so good,” I say. “They’re going to move her to Utica.”

  “Utica?” He makes it sound as awful as it seems.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Why Utica?” he asks.

  I tell him about the sanitarium closing, and about the place in Utica.

  “Well, they might make her better there, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t want to talk about my mother anymore. It’s too much to think about. “So what are you doing?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  I sit next to him on the sleeping bag and it doesn’t even take a minute before we’re making out, my hands on the back of his head to keep him tight to me, his hands slipping under my shirt, around my back to unhook my bra, back to my chest, slipping up under my loose bra, and attaching like suction cups to my breasts. It’s exactly what I want.

  I’m wearing my skirt, which rides up my legs, leaving a space for a hand to find its way up. Rusty figures this out quickly.

  He rubs at my crotch through my underwear, as if I were a lucky stone, but then he stops and I can feel a finger or two creeping between the elastic and my skin. He sticks one finger between the folds of my vagina and wiggles it. I turn slowly to the side, to make it easier for him. I can’t believe what I feel. Like I might faint. Air comes in and out of me so quickly I don’t think it’s even getting to my lungs. I’m dizzy with a need for him to put his finger further in. I’m also scared out of my senses. Even in the midst of pressing myself closer I can see myself jumping up and running away. I shouldn’t do this, I think, as my hand travels down his chest to the hard lump pressing against his zipper. As soon as I touch it, he moans, a guttural, sweet moan of pleasure that is like no other sound I’ve ever heard. I get wet, down there. I can feel it happen. His finger goes in further.

  “Oh,” I say.

  It’s not an ordinary oh, not an “Oh, by the way.” But Rusty thinks I’m talking to him.

  “Don’t worry. I got a rubber. Stevie Miller gave it to me. It’s not old or nothing,” he says.

  Our eyes are open now that we’re talking, and everything seems different, less exciting. He takes his hand out from under my skirt. I glance at his hand. His finger is wet. I turn away.

  “Do you want to?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “So I should?”

  I almost say no, don’t use a rubber. If I get pregnant, Rusty will have to marry me, and I could stay with him. But he wants to fly. To see the world. I could trick Rusty into getting me pregnant, but it would just be a trick, like hitting a wall to take away the pain inside me. Tricks don’t last long enough.

  “Yeah, put it on,” I say.

  Before he does, he helps me take off my clothes, which is awkward, but we’re both grinning, so it’s not too awkward. Then he takes off his clothes and pulls the rubber out from under the sleeping bag. He puts it on with his back turned to me, then turns around. One look down and I close my eyes.

  With my eyes still closed, I feel Rusty touching my shoulders, lowering me onto the sleeping bag so I’m lying down on my back. I feel the heat of his body right before I feel his weight. His chest is pressed on mine, and my breasts feel squashed, but then he raises up an inch and comes back down so now he’s resting some of his weight on his arms. He uses his legs to spread mine open, so his legs are on the inside of my legs. My arms are just lying flat. I have no idea what to do with them. I’m afraid to put my hands on Rusty’s back, or head, in case I stop him from moving some way he’s supposed to move. I open my eyes quickly, and see that he’s got his head bent, looking down at what we’re about to do. I think he’s trying to figure out where things go. I close my eyes again. A drop of Rusty’s sweat lands on my chest.

  Something soft and firm pokes me, but it’s too high up. I open my legs a little bit more and feel his arm move. His hand is between us now, and I can feel it guiding his penis into my opening. It tickles, and feels strange, not at all like a finger, more gentle, I think, but then something hurts. I’d pull back but he’s pressing me against the ground and there’s nothing to do but hold still. Then his body is tight to mine. I can feel his pelvic bones press against mine. He is making little sounds, like ahhhs, and starts moving up and down, not much, just short quick movements. I think he’s afraid of coming all the way out of me. I can feel his penis, but not real well, and I’m not sure exactly what’s happening. Then the ahhhs get quicker and he shudders and says, “Oh, oh God,” and collapses right on top of me.

  I feel warm and happy, but not like I did something as exciting as I thought it would be. Still, I feel very close to Rusty, almost motherly. I desperately want him to be very happy. I stroke the back of his shoulders and kiss his neck. I want to say something sweet, like You’re my baby or I love you, but they sound stupid in my head and I don’t say anything.

  Finally he lifts himself up and says, “You okay?”

  I say, “Sure.”

  He grins, showing all those small white teeth and pink gums, and I feel so much older than him.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  “Sure,” I say. We both look at each other, shyly and openly at the same time. His arms and chest are covered with freckles of all sizes, all different shades of brown. They are spattered across his skin like a Pollock painting, like the stars at night, like Morse code. I stare, wanting to memorize his skin. I want to believe that if years from now we were brought together on This Is Your Life and I was shown only his arms and his chest, I would know him.

  We get dressed, more embarrassed by putting our clothes on than taking them off. We walk back to his house and right before we get to the gap in the woods where we will come out into view, he stops. “I really like you,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I really like you too.” But I don’t feel like I think I should. I think I liked the touching part better than the sex part. I remember him kissing my neck that first time better than what it felt like to have him inside me. I hope he’ll kiss my neck again, I think as he goes in his house and I go back across the road.

  Kip greets me, sniffs my leg,
and keeps sniffing as I walk, his tail wagging furiously. “Don’t tell,” I say.

  I swear he nods his head. He’s a sweet dog. I go into the house and open the refrigerator to get Kip something to eat. There is a bottle of ketchup, a jar of mustard, and a rotten apple. No one is here. The car is in the drive, but no one is in the house. I finally see the note; it has fallen on the floor under a chair. We have gone for a walk up the hill. Please join us.

  I stand in the empty kitchen and stare at the note. Us. Us does not include my mother now. She will never come in this kitchen again. She will never walk up the hill. We will move to a new house and I will unpack the few kitchen items we possess. I will set up house. Cook. Do the laundry. Plan the meals. I can see this, like a movie, my moving through these motions, yet my body is empty like this kitchen.

  All the good feelings from having sex with Rusty leave me, without even the memory of a kiss. I want my mom. I want her to want me enough to be healthy for me. But she has given up, and I have prayed and prayed.

  I need God to save my mother. Maybe Helen is right. I have to do something for Him before He will do something for me. I have to show Him I trust Him completely.

  I go upstairs. There is a trapdoor in the ceiling of the hallway that leads to the attic. I have to take the long, hooked pole from my parents’ closet and reach up to pull the metal loop in the ceiling. The stairs topple down with a creak and a thud and a sifting of dust. The first step is more than a foot from the floor. When I put my weight on it, it shudders with a sigh of complaint. There is no light switch on the second floor for the attic. I assume it’s up there someplace.

  There are spiderwebs, but I’ve never been afraid of spiders; spiders are friends; living in the places we have, I can always expect them to be around. We even bring some with us, hidden in boxes; tiny stowaways. I wave an arm out, sweeping away the webs. A daddy longlegs clings to the wall.

  The attic ceiling is low, with bare wood rafters slanting down to touch the floor. The light coming through the half-moon window illuminates the small, clean attic. Boxes are stacked neatly along one side of the room. On the other side are two old floor lamps missing their shades, a caned chair, a large black trunk, and a typewriter. There is no sign of a squirrel. No mice. Only Timothy, boxed and stacked. And probably pretty hot; it’s close up here. The air is still. It’s like being inside a lung, the rafters the ribs. I am inside a held breath, waiting for a shout.

  I go over to the window. It’s small, but I think I can squeeze through it. It doesn’t lead out to a roof, since it’s on the outside wall where there is no roof, but this isn’t a dream. I don’t need the roof. I try to open the window by pushing on the bottom. It’s painted shut. Really painted shut. It’s hard to tell where the wall ends and the window frame begins.

  If I break out the glass, there won’t be enough room for me to crawl out. I have to get the whole thing open, frame and all. I try to wiggle the window. Nothing. I bang on the frame with my fist. I find a nail on the floor and try to chip away at the paint, then push again. Nothing, but I’m building up quite a sweat. Finally, I sit on the floor and kick the frame with my feet, over and over and over. It doesn’t budge. Suddenly, I am crying, doubled over, holding my stomach against the painful gulps of air my body takes in. The stuck window is God’s message. He’s saying, I don’t need you to believe in me. Don’t bother.

  I’m not worth any miracles, big or small.

  I tell God I don’t care. He didn’t punish me for the skinny-dipping, like Mrs. Murphy thought He should. He isn’t saving my mother, even though I’ve begged Him. Helen is scared of getting TB, even though she’s saved. What good is He anyway? If there is a God, He’s not the one I need. I can be just as miserable without Him.

  I cry loudly, like a little kid, tears and snot running down my face. I cry so long it starts to feel good, like I deserve this. If anyone should cry it should be me. I can feel myself pushing it now, crying when I know I could stop. The self-pity doesn’t feel good anymore, just feels stupid. I wipe my eyes and look around the attic at all the boxes. Everything left of Timothy is up here. If I had jumped and God hadn’t saved me—which I bet He wouldn’t have; I bet, if He exists at all, He’s soaking up all of Helen’s heady praises right now—there would hardly be enough of my stuff to pack into two boxes. There isn’t enough of me to die yet. The thought almost makes me laugh. I can feel a grin at the corner of my lips.

  If Timothy is up here in these boxes, he’s trapped by that locked window and the trapdoor. It’s hot and stuffy up here. He’s all alone. Someone has to let him out.

  I choose the first box I come to. It’s taped shut with wide brown tape, so dry it tears off easily. Inside are clothes: blue jeans, flannel shirts, T-shirts, socks, underwear, a pair of flannel pajamas, a Boy Scout uniform. The clothes are about my size. He must have been small for his age.

  I hold up a green flannel shirt to my nose. Dust and something else, something human. I stand and pull my blouse off over my head and take off my bra. Then I take off my pants. Before I put on his shirt I look down at my almost naked body. The skin of my torso is pale, while my arms and legs taper into tans of different shades mottled by healing scabs from my flight down the hill. Goose pimples form on my arms as I watch, even in the heat. My nipples get erect. I grin, thinking maybe God is looking now. Maybe God is a little bit like Rusty. Maybe He’s a little bit like my dad too: blinded by His own light. Maybe God should be a woman and have to wash the dishes more often.

  Still holding Timothy’s shirt in one hand, I work off my underwear, dropping them on the dusty floor. I put on his shirt, then his underwear. The underwear hangs around my hips but stays up. Next, I put on his pants, which hang loose also. The pants have been worn thin at the knees, which are at the top of my shins. The bottom of the pants bunch up around my bare feet. The jean material is soft and warm as skin. At the bottom of the box are three rolled belts, like snakes. I put one on, hitching up the pants as much as I can. Then I go through the rest of his boxes.

  One has puzzles, at least a dozen, of animals and flowers and cities. I carry it over to the open trapdoor to take downstairs. Another box has just junk. Old notebooks, pencils, crayons, combs, a wallet with scraps of paper with names and telephone numbers, chewed-up rubber soldiers, some kind of army goggles, a thick piece of wood with a battery wired to a flashlight bulb, books about spaceships, used erasers, a small red rubber ball, a blue baseball hat with the insignia torn off, lots of Cub Scout and Boy Scout badges, a blue wooden yo-yo, and, wrapped in a kitchen towel, one glass, which must be the glass that Timothy had his last drink from, the glass that made Mrs. Burns move. A plain, clear, tall glass with a thick bottom. It wouldn’t tip over easy. But it would break if it fell.

  The stuff in this box is just junk, really, the stuff we leave behind or toss in Dumpsters the day before we go. But I think this is the stuff that makes noises in the night; that needs him, that defines him; the very stuff we leave behind.

  I pick up the wallet and stick it in my back pocket.

  The next box has comic books, hundreds of them, Superman, Spider-Man, Donald Duck, The Fantastic Four, a gold mine for my brother. I put this box by the one with the puzzles.

  Then I open a box that has winter clothes in it. Hats, scarves, gloves, a dark-blue snowsuit, green rubber boots. I don’t need this. I repack it neatly.

  Another box has a set of miniature cars and trucks, houses and gas stations, a grocery store, a pharmacy, a bakery, and a little town hall complete with wide steps and sculptured pillars. There are tiny stop signs and yield signs. And scattered about, filling the spaces, are little people, their painted faces worn clear except for black eyes that are so deep the color can’t be rubbed off. Everything is cast in metal. It is a town, for me. Without a drop of sarcasm, I tell God I’m sorry for all the mean things I said. I also tell Him I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to stop trying to believe in Him. If He’s really there, I hope He’s got enough people to believe in Him
to keep Him happy. I’m going to give it a break. I don’t even know if I’m going to be me for a while. I might give that a break too.

  I carry this box over to the trapdoor. There are only two more boxes.

  One box has clothes, but it feels heavier than clothes should feel, so I dig through it. Wrapped in shirts are three shiny silver trophies, each of a baseball player holding a thin bat. Each one has Timothy’s name on it. Timothy Burns. I wrap them back up carefully, even though they should be on a shelf somewhere. I hope someday Mrs. Burns can look at them again.

  The last box has about a dozen stuffed animals. I can’t decide if I should take all the stuffed animals down, so I grab one middle-sized teddy bear and a soft, gray elephant with floppy ears. If my sister wants more, I’ll tell her where they are.

  They packed this stuff and kept it as if he might come back and ask where his things are. But no one ever comes back. It’s hard enough just to stay.

  I carry the boxes down the steps, moving very carefully on the wobbly stairs. The last step is too far away and I have to jump, landing on both feet. When I’m done taking everything down to the living room, I try to figure out how to close the attic steps. Every time I shove them up, they come back down. I’m making enough noise to wake the dead, which I don’t want to do right now, especially since I’m wearing his clothes. Finally, I quit trying and leave the stairs down.

  No one is back yet. It must be quite a sunset. I get a can of Spam from the basement for Kip and dump it in his bowl, but when I take it out to where he eats by the hydrangea bush, he ignores the food and circles me, sniffing the clothes I’m wearing. It’s not the scent of sex he smells this time, but of love, his boy, good times. Kip looks up at me and tilts his head in question, his ears lifting up just as much as they can. Then his tail wags a thousand miles an hour. I can’t get him to eat, so I sit down on the lawn and let him have a real good smell. Then I see Brenda running down the road toward me, my family walking slowly behind.