by Tawni Waters
As I go to the refrigerator for a snack, I wonder how fast a bedbug grows. Probably pretty quickly, considering Mr. Farley’s recent insect lecture. Egg, larva, pupa, adult. I wonder which stage Iggy would be if he were a bug. Stuck somewhere between larva and pupa, I guess.
Iggy sings along with Ethel.
“You like this?” Momma asks.
Iggy nods.
She starts to dance, and Iggy follows, more or less, stepping on her feet. I pull out a bag of grapes and pop a couple in my mouth.
“Mara, wash those first,” Momma scolds. “You have no idea what kind of germs are on them.” I take a cluster to the sink and rinse it.
Finally Momma releases Iggy. “Would you help me decorate Iggy’s cake?” she asks me.
“Sure.” Iggy’s birthday cake sits on the counter, a three-layer, lopsided monstrosity. “Nice Leaning Tower of Cake,” I want to say, but I’m pretty sure it would hurt Momma’s feelings. Instead I say, “The cake’s pretty, Momma. Better than Martha Stewart.”
“Thanks.” Momma beams as I carry the cake to the table.
“She made me a cake,” Iggy says. He sits at the table, eagerly watching me, as if cake decorating is an Olympic event. “From scratch,” he adds.
I smile. “That’s ’cause you’re the bee’s knees,” I say.
Momma laughs. “What does that even mean, you crazy girl?”
“It means he’s the best brother ever.” I glue the crumbly layers together with frosting as best as I can. Then I slap another layer over the outside.
“Very nice,” Momma says, holding a baggy with a hole cut in the corner. It’s filled with sunny yellow frosting. “It’s time for the finishing touch.” HAPPY BIRTHDAY IGGY, she writes in squiggly letters.
Then she adds an exclamation point. Pause.
Another exclamation point.
Exclamation point.
Exclamation point.
Four exclamation points.
I try to remember how many I had on my cake. Now that I know Momma would leave me here with Daddy, I can’t help but think she loves Iggy more.
Iggy holds up the red bowl Momma used for the frosting. “Can I lick the bowl, Momma?”
“Of course.”
I stick my finger in the bowl. Iggy jerks it away. “Momma said I could have it.”
“You have to share,” I say. “Family rules.”
Momma sighs. “Mara, it’s his birthday. Could you let him have one little treat without making an issue of it?”
I want to tell her that I’m tired of being nice to Iggy. I want to tell her that when it comes to her, he always gets the treats. I want to tell her that last I checked, she was pretty much ready to run off with the kid she actually loved and leave me here to rot with Daddy. Instead I mumble, “Sorry, Iggy.”
I must look really apologetic because Iggy says, “Here.” He tries to give me the whole bowl, but I just take one lick and give it back. Then I stare out the window, watching a falcon spin and swoop in the sky. It makes me feel better.
I think about Henry’s hawk feather hanging over my bed, bringing me good luck. It must be working. I’m going to Xylia’s tomorrow. “Thanks, Henry,” I whisper.
Breathing in the sweet smell of cake, I think about how things have been since Henry gave me his feather. As much as I get sick of Iggy acting like a toddler, Daddy is being nice, and Momma seems mostly happy. I wonder if there really is something to Henry’s magic. I wonder if he really does have a gift, like Xylia says.
Soon Daddy comes home. When he calls for Momma, there’s a smile in his voice. “Cora, come see this.”
I hear the click-clack of Momma’s shoes and a little gasp. “Oh, Russ. It’s beautiful.”
“What is it?” Iggy calls, running toward the front door.
“Not now, Iggy,” Daddy says. “March right back into that kitchen. It’s a birthday present.” His words are stern, but his voice is still cheerful.
“Mara,” Momma calls. “Come see what Daddy got Iggy.” Her voice is full of happiness, like a piñata stuffed with sweet candy. Daddy has never, ever gotten Iggy a present in his whole life. Not once.
Daddy’s standing in the front hall holding a brand-new rifle. I know it must have cost a lot of money. I’m stunned. Most times Daddy has to be pestered to buy school supplies for Iggy. A heavy feeling lifts off my back. Today Daddy loves Iggy. Tomorrow he’ll probably be back to acting like a spit wad with legs, but at least for now he’s nice.
I touch the polished metal of the gun barrel. “It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” I think of the beauty of the Highwayman’s twinkling pistol, finally understanding that part of the poem.
Tonight we’re just like a real family. We laugh at the table, long and loud, and Daddy laughs loudest of all. He is twitchy and excited, and I’m anxious with him.
“I can’t wait to see the look on Iggy’s face,” I whisper when Iggy goes to put his plate in the sink.
Daddy winks. “You just wait, Rosebud. This is gonna be his best birthday ever.”
Momma brings out the cake, blazing with eighteen candles. She sets it in front of Iggy.
“Momma made it from scratch,” Iggy says.
“Ready to sing?” Momma starts, but her voice comes out too high. Daddy imitates her, and we all start to laugh so hard, we can hardly finish the song. Then Daddy shouts, “Blow out your candles, boy, and make a wish!”
Iggy sucks in a deep breath, and whoosh, out go the candles. Every single one.
I feel like I got a wish too. This day is magic. Some white witch must’ve wandered into Barnaby and replaced my daddy with another man. Or maybe it’s Henry’s hawk feather, making everything okay. It’s like this when Daddy is nice. Every time it happens, it makes my head spin.
Tonight he claps Iggy on the back for blowing out the candles. He takes the time to wink at me before he leaves the room, returning with his hands behind his back. I can see the rifle butt through the space between his legs, but I guess Iggy can’t, because when Daddy shows him the gun, Iggy’s freckles light up like the Fourth of July.
“Holy cow, Daddy! Holy cow!” Iggy scoots away from the table and runs to Daddy, tripping over Momma’s chair on the way.
He takes the gun in his hands and stares at it with wide eyes.
Daddy puts his hand on Iggy’s shoulder. Daddy’s voice is serious now. “When a boy gets his first gun, not an old BB gun, but a twenty-two-caliber rifle, it means he’s not a boy anymore. He’s a man.”
Iggy stands up taller.
I watch, feeling a little choked up, hoping that this moment will change everything. I let myself believe it. We’re going to be happy now. We’re going to be a family. Me, Momma, Daddy, and Iggy. And all because of a stupid old gun.
“Maybe the liberals wouldn’t go on so much about gun control if they saw Iggy’s face right now,” I call out, and Daddy smiles. He’s proud, I can tell, that I know so much about politics.
“Maybe they wouldn’t,” he says.
Iggy takes the gun to his chest, presses it close. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“So, how about some target practice?” Daddy asks.
It’s only then that I remember what guns are used for. Iggy’s not a killer. He never was, but since Daddy broke his brain, it’s worse. He can’t even chop the heads off soup hens anymore—can’t stand the misery in the chickens’ eyes. So I do it for him. I don’t really like it, but I wait a whole hour to wash the blood off my hands, just so Daddy will think it’s no big deal and won’t punish Iggy for not doing his chore. But now that Daddy has given Iggy this gun, there’s nothing I can do.
“Target practice?” Iggy asks.
Daddy shrugs. “Yeah, grab some of those soup cans from the trash, and let’s have at ’em.”
Iggy whoops, and I whoop right along with him. Soup cans! Daddy only wants Iggy to kill soup cans.
We gather our coats and run into the yard. Daddy sets a soup can on a stump, then shows Iggy how to hold the gun.
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“Safety,” Daddy says solemnly, “is your first concern when you use a firearm. You got that?”
Iggy nods.
“Repeat what I said,” Daddy says, turning the gun this way and that, checking it out.
“Safety is your first concern.” Twilight will fall soon, turning the whole world purple, but for now we can still see in the dimming light.
“You could kill a man with this. It’s a weapon, not a toy. Now here. Put her up on your shoulder.” He adjusts the gun so it’s comfortable for Iggy, shows him how to aim, even helps Iggy pull the trigger the first time. There’s a boom, and what’s left of the soup can flies away from the stump.
“Hot damn!” Daddy shouts, clapping Iggy on the shoulder. “You’re a regular sharpshooter, boy!”
Iggy laughs. “Hot damn!” he echoes.
I stand on the porch and wonder at the way all of Iggy and Daddy’s problems seem to have melted into the icy evening. I rub my arms, trying to erase the chill bumps that have broken out all over them, even under my coat. When I’m sure that Iggy and Daddy are getting along fine, I sit on the porch and pull a piece of driftwood out of my pocket. I found it washed up on the shore while I was fishing last summer.
I pull out my pocketknife and ask the wood, “What are you?”
Then I start to whittle, helping it become what it was meant to be. A female figure. I give her hips and breasts, waves of hair falling over her forehead and shoulders. I carve compassionate, wide eyes. Xylia’s eyes. When she is smooth and soft, I push her in my pocket. Daddy and Iggy are still getting along, so I go inside. By the porch, I stop and break an icicle from the window sill.
When I walk into the kitchen, Momma’s at the sink, her arms buried up to her elbows in suds. She’s scrubbing away, like always, but her eyes are bright blue, the way they were when I was little.
“Here, Momma,” I say. “I got this for you.”
Momma laughs. “Oh, Mara. How lovely.” She kisses my cheek, and her velvety skin rubs my own. Then she dries her hands and places the icicle in a vase, as if it were a flower.
I look out the window, watching Iggy and Daddy take turns shooting the cans until Iggy’s best birthday ever fades to moonlit blue.
CHAPTER 9
AFTER SCHOOL FRIDAY, XYLIA’S MOMMA picks us up in a bright red convertible. The top is down even though it’s freezing out, and her wavy brown hair is a mess, but she’s smiling. I think she’s the prettiest grown-up I’ve ever seen. No wonder Xylia is so beautiful. She looks just like her momma, only her momma is a little plumper. Not fat, but curvy. She has little wrinkles around her dark eyes. I imagine that is what Xylia will look like when she’s older. I hope I still know her then so I can see it.
As I approach the car, Xylia’s momma says, “Hello, Mara,” thrusting out her hand. As I shake it, she says, “I’m Juliette. Xylia’s told me so much about you.” My heart pounds. Xylia’s told her momma so much about me?
“She’s told me about you, too,” I say.
Without opening the door, Xylia hops over the side of the car and plops onto the seat. “Jump in!”
I try to do what she did, but I trip and face plant beside her.
She laughs. “You’re so cute,” she says, helping me up.
“If it’s too cold for you girls, I can put the top up,” Juliette says.
Xylia looks at me, her eyebrows raised in a question.
“I like it,” I say.
Xylia beams, as if I have just answered exactly the right way. “I knew you would.”
Juliette pulls out of the parking lot, and I can feel myself blushing, both from the shame of falling and from the joy of having Xylia tell me I’m cute. We can’t talk much on the way home because the wind is loud and Xylia’s momma’s music is even louder. Xylia sings along, her hair slapping around her face.
When we get to Xylia’s house, Juliette shoves open the door, which she hasn’t bothered to lock, and holds it for us. “Mi casa es su casa.” Warm air wraps around me.
It’s like I stepped into a fairyland. There are so many colors, it’s dizzying. African masks and huge paintings in gold frames hang from the walls. Juliette must have a green thumb, because everywhere I look, there’s some sort of potted plant. The leaves of one wind all the way up the banister.
“That’s Maury,” Xylia says, pointing to the plant. “He’s mom’s favorite philodendron. You wouldn’t believe the trouble she went through to make sure his arms didn’t break off during the move.” I’m not sure if I should shake one of Maury’s many hands or not. Glass fairies and butterflies and birds hang everywhere, dangling from doorways and windows and lampshades. The whole place smells like cinnamon. Outside, a million wind chimes jangle, making the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.
“I love your house so much!” I say, and I mean it. I’ve never felt more at home anywhere.
“It’s a little eclectic, but then, so are we.” Juliette puts her arm around Xylia’s shoulder and squeezes. Eclectic? My momma would call this place freaky, but I think it’s breathtaking.
Xylia smiles. “Mara’s eclectic too. You should see her art, Mom. She’s amazing.”
“Maybe you can bring it next time you come over?” Juliette asks.
“Sure,” I say, not really believing that a grown-up wants to see my art.
“Xylia tells me you wanted to see my goddess collection.”
I nod, feeling like I’m looking at a goddess already. Juliette’s like no mom I’ve ever seen before. She leads us to a room that’s almost all windows. Sunlight creates kaleidoscopes on the paintings and statues that are everywhere, surrounded by flowering plants and tiny fountains.
“Welcome to the goddess room,” Juliette says, picking up a hand-size, clay statue of a fat lady. “I got this one in Malta. They worshipped the goddess there for thousands of years. Their temples are mostly gone, but the walls are still there.”
She puts the Maltese goddess down and goes to the biggest statue in the room, an almost life-size version of the Virgin of Guadalupe. She looks exactly like the one on Xylia’s ring, smiling serenely, her eyes dark and forever. She’s the kind of God I could imagine loving, the kind of god who might even understand my love for Xylia. I feel like a heathen for doing it, but I send her a quick prayer inside my head. Please, if you can hear me, I have to tell someone. I think I might love Xylia. Even if you don’t approve, I had to say it anyway. I study her face, watching for a reaction. A beam of sunlight falls over her lips, and it seems as if she smiles a little more, as if she doesn’t think I’m an abomination at all.
After we are done looking at the goddesses, Xylia leads me to her room. It’s small, but otherworldly, just like the rest of the house. It has Xylia’s soft, flowery smell. “So, shall we dance first, or shall we do the trig?”
I still can’t imagine dancing in front of Xylia, so I say, “We probably should get the work out of the way first.”
“You’re probably right,” says Xylia, sighing as she unzips her backpack. “I mean, I don’t get this shit at all. Putting letters in math? As far as I’m concerned, it’s blasphemy.” She laughs.
I laugh too, though I don’t get the joke. I like trig. “I can show you how it works. Like I said, it’s really easy, once you get the hang of it.” I sit beside her.
She hands me her notebook and a pencil. Our fingers brush, and a shiver runs through me. “Okay,” I say. “So let’s start at the beginning.”
Xylia leans in close. Just then a big orange cat wanders into the room. “That’s Octavio Paws,” she says. “Like the poet.”
I shrug, confused.
“Octavio Paz was this Mexican poet. My dad was always making poetry jokes like that.” She smiles wistfully.
She holds out her hand to the cat. “Here, Octavio,” she coos. He comes and curls up in her lap. I’ve never in my life wanted to be a cat more than I do right now.
“He’s so fat,” I say.
“He is, isn’t he? You’re getting a gut on yo
u, aren’t you baby?” She pets his belly, and he purrs in response.
I explain the basics of trig to Xylia, all the while watching her stroke Octavio’s fur, wishing I were him. She’s as smart as I thought she was, and she picks up on trigonometry fast. Within an hour, she’s become a pro.
“I totally get it,” she says gleefully. “You’re a miracle worker, Mara.” She kisses me on the cheek. I swear, it feels like her lips burn a hole in my face. I don’t know what to say.
Luckily I don’t have to say anything. Juliette shows up in the doorway, wearing a kimono. “Would either of you girls like a beverage?”
A beverage? She sounds like someone in a movie.
Xylia asks. “Do you want something?”
“Sure, I’d love a beverage.” I try to sound sophisticated, but I sound nervous instead.
Xylia’s mom returns with two glasses of something that looks like wine. The crystal glasses are elegant, with slender stems. “Sparkling cider,” Juliette says as she presses a glass into my hand. “No alcohol.”
Xylia smiles. “Dad lets me drink wine on special occasions.” She takes a sip of her cider. I worry for a second when she says this. I wonder if she’s like my daddy when she gets drunk. But watching her glittering eyelids close as she takes a sip of the cider, I think she could never in a million years be anything like my daddy.
“Well, not on my watch,” Juliette says. “Anyway, you’ll have plenty of time to enjoy that when you’re older. Like anything else, it’s wonderful in moderation.” She leaves Xylia and me alone with our drinks.
I take a sip. The bubbles tickle my nose.
“Do you like it?”
What a question. How do I answer that? How do I tell her that the day I met her, my world went from black-and-white to color? How do I tell her that everything I have said, seen, tasted, since I met her has been the best thing that ever happened to me? I can’t say any of that, so instead I ask, “Does wine taste like this? I’ve never had it before.”
