Beauty of the Broken

by Tawni Waters

  That dizzy feeling comes back. “Momma, no,” I whisper.

  She smiles. “Just a smidge,” she says, holding her cup under the table. I watch as clear liquid sloshes from her flask into her punch. She takes a big gulp. I can already smell the sour, drunk smell coming from the cup. Soon it will be all over Momma, oozing from her pores.

  Iggy wolfs down his goodies, but I can’t touch mine. My stomach starts to hurt, and when Momma goes back to the line to refill her glass, I almost start to cry. I think about stealing the flask from her purse, but it won’t do any good. She’ll know I took it and take it back.

  Iggy goes for seconds. “Hurry up and finish,” I tell him as he sits down with more pie.

  “I’m hungry,” he says.

  “Hurry up!”

  He doesn’t hurry, and Momma fills her cup twice more.

  “Can we go?” I keep asking.

  “Not until Iggy is full,” Momma says.

  Finally he shoves the last bit of cookie into his mouth.

  “Now?” I ask.

  “I suppose,” Momma says, slurring. I wonder if she should drive, but how else will we get home before she makes an ass of herself in front of God and everyone? She wobbles on her way to the car, but she drives better than I thought she would. She only swerves twice, and by the time she starts to cry, we’re almost home anyway.

  “It’s okay, Momma,” I say, patting her arm.

  “Nothing is fucking okay,” she spits back. “You think those army men won’t take whatever they can get? You don’t think they’ll take my baby from me? Don’t you see, Mara? He’s dead.”

  Momma’s words hang heavy in the air, like napalm. We’re all poisoned. Next to me, Iggy starts to cry. “I’m gonna be all I can be,” he says, rocking.

  When we walk into the living room, Daddy’s slumped on the couch watching sitcom reruns, wearing the same thing as when we left. Momma trips into the living room, crying big, gulping sobs. Daddy ignores them though, doesn’t even look at her. He just keeps shoveling ice cream into his mouth and staring at the television. I expect Momma to admit defeat and retreat to the bedroom. Instead she stumbles over to Daddy and plants herself between him and the TV. He moves his head so he can see around her.

  “Where the hell were you?” Momma screams. “Where the hell have you been?”

  I almost pee, I’m so scared. I stare at Daddy, waiting for him to explode. He doesn’t.

  “Iggy volunteered to join the goddamn army!” she shouts.

  Daddy snorts. “That moron? He can’t even shoot a fucking rabbit without blubbering. No United States Army is gonna want his sorry ass.”

  The sitcom family jokes about the ozone layer. Momma’s mouth hangs a little, like Daddy punched her in the face again. Iggy runs upstairs.

  CHAPTER 18

  WHEN I WAS LITTLE, I lived for summer vacation. Now I’d give my right leg for it to be over. It’s so hot in the house, I’m constantly damp with sweat. When I go outside, gnats eat me alive. Cicadas buzz angrily all day, and it gives me a headache. Mostly I mope around missing Xylia, wishing it was September.

  Iggy isn’t any happier. It turns out Daddy was right. Iggy isn’t going to be all he can be. Not even close. His test results render him unfit for military service, and when Momma tells him what the letter he gets in the mail means, he starts to cry. For a few weeks he silently does chores around the farm, his shoulders stooped, but finally he goes to Momma and says, “I wanna get a job, Momma.”

  Me and Momma are sitting at the kitchen table scrapbooking old photos when he says it. Momma likes to scrapbook our memories. I don’t like it so much, but I have some pictures of Xylia and me and Henry, so I’m decorating them with hearts.

  “Did you hear me, Momma?” Iggy asks. He’s wearing his old overalls, and his hands are buried deep in the pockets. “I want a job.”

  Momma’s eyebrows go up. “A job?” she says, like he has suggested he wants a pet alien. She sets down the page she’s scrapbooking, a montage of me and Iggy when we were little. Sitting on the porch eating ice pops, swinging on a tire swing, holding puppies.

  “Yeah,” Iggy says. “I saw a sign on the door at the grocery store. They need baggers. I wanna be a bagger.”

  His shoulders are stooped when he says it. I think about how tall he looked when he said he was gonna be all he could be. He went from that to wanting to be a bagger. For a minute I feel kinda bad about him not being able to join the army, but then I think about the way people die when they go to war, and I decide bagging groceries is better than dying.

  Iggy has to beg, but Momma finally gives in and takes him to the store, which leaves me alone with my photos. I carry them to my room, press them into my favorite book, the one that has “The Highwayman,” and then head down to the river. I don’t grab my pole. I don’t want to fish today. I just gotta move. Do something. Anything.

  As I walk, the sky drips with buttery sunlight. Red birds sing like they don’t have a care in the world. When I reach the river, willows are dipping their shimmering green fingers in the water. Everything is shiny and bright.

  I sit on the riverbank, watching a tiny finch twitter around. I think about Xylia kissing me, and for some reason I wanna cry—not in a bad way, in a good, I-don’t-know-what-else-to-do way. Still, sometimes, people walk up on you when you’re sitting by the river, and I sure don’t want anyone to see me cry.

  I try to keep the tears in my head. My trick is I find something round to stare at, like a plate or a clock or a quarter. I concentrate hard on the roundness, let my eyes wander around and around the edges of it. For reasons I can’t explain, it makes the tears dry up. It doesn’t work with squares or triangles, only circles. So I find a round nest in a tree, and the tears stay away.

  After that I just lie by the river with my eyes closed, feeling the cool mud soak into my back, thinking about me and Xylia snuggling close on her bed, making plans to visit Mexico. Xylia’s lips were bright red that day, begging to be kissed.

  I glance up at the wispy clouds. In the movies men and ladies kiss and sail off into the clouds to live happily ever after. I wouldn’t mind a happily-ever-after. I wouldn’t mind slipping off with Xylia one bit.

  I close my eyes again, deciding to practice my kissing so that next time Xylia kisses me, I’ll be ready. I move my palm toward my face, slowly. I part my lips and press them against my hand.

  This is not what kissing Xylia felt like. My hand tastes like dirt, and the calluses scratch my lips. There’s no softness. It’s more like smashing my nose and mouth against the truck window to make blowfish faces.

  It occurs to me just how foolish I must look, lying here among the river grasses, making out with my own hand. I start up, look around. A turquoise butterfly hovers over my head. I’m so busy watching her that I am stunned when Xylia pops out of the bushes. My insides catch fire. I wonder if I summoned her with my thoughts.

  “There you are,” she says. I blush, wondering if she saw me kissing my hand.

  “And there you are,” I say back. “How was Angels in America?”

  “Oh my God,” she says, plopping down beside me. “I cried so fucking hard. I mean, I think my mom thought she was gonna have to take me to a mental hospital or something.”

  I laugh. “That makes me kinda glad I didn’t go.”

  “No way.” She slaps me on the arm playfully. “It would have been better if you were there. We could have had nervous breakdowns together.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I say.

  “Anything’s fun with you.”

  “Yeah, well, I was a wreck without you. That’s for sure,” I say. She puts her hand over mine, and I get all nervous. “Was the angel pretty?” I ask, too fast.

  “Pretty isn’t even the word. I mean, she had really short hair, like a boy. Not what you’d expect an angel to look like, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But, wow, she was gorgeous. She had this voice that just made your guts boil.”

  “T
hen I’m definitely glad I didn’t go,” I joke.

  Xylia kisses me on the cheek. My skin burns. “I missed you,” she says.

  “I missed you too.”

  “I went to your house. Your mom said you must’ve gone fishing.”

  “Naw. Just wanted to look at the water.” I don’t know what else to say, and besides, my throat is so tight, I can’t talk. I stare into the clear, cool water, watching long-legged water bugs dance on its surface.

  Mara, you’ve got to do something about this. You can’t love like this for too much longer without saying it, or your heart will explode.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I finally manage. Xylia squeezes my hand.

  “Hello,” a voice behind us says. It’s Henry, with his hair combed slick and his freckled shirt tucked in.

  Xylia takes her hand away. So much for gladness.

  “Henry,” I say. I’ve never been more disappointed to see anyone. “I thought you were at the reservation.”

  “Not until next week.” He grins. “How’s the fishing?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I’m not fishing.”

  “My mom wants me to learn to fish,” Xylia announces. “Fish oils are good for your heart.” She stands.

  “You have a pole?” Henry asks.

  “No.” Xylia yawns and arches her back, stretching like a cat.

  “You can use mine,” Henry offers.

  I hate Henry.

  Before I can even wipe the mud off my butt, Henry has Xylia all set up with his pole. She’s giggling her head off because she doesn’t know how to hold the stupid thing. Henry’s laughing too.

  “Just one hand in front of the other,” he says, and he slips around behind her. What’s he doing? He knows Xylia and me are in love.

  “Here,” he says, placing her hands on the pole, “just like that.” I can see Xylia’s white skin peeking out under his brown. “Now put your finger on the line, and jerk back over your shoulder.” Henry yanks the pole. It looks like he’s teaching Xylia to dance, they move so smooth together, two sets of arms and legs working like they’re all part of the same creature. The line flies over Henry’s head. Xylia’s hook lands in a tree.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I shout. I jump up and march over to the tree, swearing all the way. “I suppose I’ll have to scrape myself up climbing this stupid tree because the two of you are too gooey eyed to even cast straight.”

  I’m a gifted tree climber. When I was little, I came up with excuses to conquer the branches and find myself looking down on the itty-bitty world, like I was an angel in heaven or even God himself. So it won’t be much trouble for me to shinny up this trunk and rescue Xylia’s hook. But it’s the principle of the thing.

  I wrap my arms and knees around the trunk and scoot myself toward the sky, keeping my head turned to glare at Xylia and Henry, who are standing on the ground looking bewildered.

  “You okay?” Xylia calls out. She takes a step away from Henry. “I didn’t mean to cast it up there.”

  She’s so wide-eyed and worried, I can’t stay mad. “It’s cool,” I say, which loosens them up. I crawl out to the limb where the hook is stuck and yank it free from the leaves. “Bombs away!” I shout, dropping the hook.

  “Well, Mara,” Henry says when I climb down, “we wouldn’t do much fishing today were it not for you.” He gives me a one-armed hug.

  Xylia grins, showing me all her perfect teeth. “Thank you,” she says. “I would’ve killed myself trying to climb that tree. How’d you do that?”

  I feel like I’m Tiger Woods being interviewed after a big tournament. I answer the way I think he might answer. A modest bowing of the head, but with my shoulders straight to let people see I know how great I am, only I’m too modest to say so.

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “It comes easy to me.”

  Xylia laughs that sweet, musical, belly laugh.

  We’re all quiet for a minute. Finally, figuring someone has to break the silence, I nod at the water and say, “I’m guessing Paul Bunyan’s out there today.”

  “Paul Bunyan?” Xylia asks. “With the blue ox?”

  “Paul Bunyan’s a fish.” I put my hand on her elbow instructively. “Every once and a while, someone gets a glimpse of him. He’s as huge as a whale, and he eats the bait right off of people’s hooks without them ever even knowing he was there. He’s that smart. Iggy and me have been trying to catch him since we learned to walk.”

  “Maybe Xylia will have beginner’s luck and catch him,” Henry says, and I consider slapping him. Why’s he even here? Why’d he go through all the trouble of saying good-bye to me on the last day of school if he was just going to stalk me at the river?

  After taking off our shoes, we sit on a log—Henry, then Xylia, then me. The bark scratches our behinds, but the mud feels cool and gooshy between our toes.

  Henry fishes first. It’s not long before he gets a nibble. He whoops, and me and Xylia jump up and start floundering about, shouting advice.

  “Get the net!” I say.

  “Hang on to him! He seems big!” Xylia hollers.

  “Jerk it hard!” I yell. “Make sure the hook is set!”

  “He’s a fighter!” Henry calls over his shoulder, his arms taut with the effort of wrestling the fish. Xylia dances from one foot to the other, clapping her hands earnestly, with that look fathers of football players wear when their sons are about to make a touchdown.

  “Do you think it’s Paul Bunyan?” she cries.

  “No,” I snap.

  Henry reels in the last of his line. His prize flops on the end of the hook, just beneath the surface of the water.

  “He’s a whopper all right!” I shout, raising the net over my head. Henry’s face goes from frenzied to flat.

  “Awww,” he says, letting his air out slowly.

  “It’s a toilet seat,” Xylia squeals, doubling over.

  Pretty soon we’re all on our backs on the bank, roaring about how that toilet seat put up a good struggle all right.

  Xylia sits up, gasping. “He’s a fighter!” she cries, doing her best Henry imitation.

  We all collapse again. I point at Xylia. “You were hopping around like a first grader locked out of the bathroom!”

  “Yeah, well you practically broke your neck trying to get your hands on that net!” Xylia laughs so hard she snorts. Me and Henry snort back at her, poking fun a bit, and that’s when things get ugly. Suddenly Xylia is on top of us.

  “Watch it,” Henry roars, “you’ll mess up your pretty hair.”

  “I don’t care about my fucking hair,” Xylia cries, feigning fury.

  “She doesn’t care about her fucking hair,” I echo, grinning and slapping Henry on the back, but no one notices me. I’m no longer a part of this wrestling match. After a few more feeble attacks, I sit up and watch.

  It hurts to see Xylia and Henry tumbling over each other in the mud, laughing hard, trying to one up each other’s best moves. Nobody wins. They both just slow down, then stop, like those wind-up dancing monkeys in old movies. They lie there panting, staring at the changing clouds. I lie beside them. Xylia is close enough that I can reach out and touch her hand, but I don’t. She might as well be on another continent. I find a cloud that’s round and try not to cry.

  “Shall we go in for a swim?” Henry finally says.

  I’m in. Anything is better than lying around watching Henry and Xylia get cozy. “What are we supposed to do?” I ask. “Go swimming in our clothes? These pants are so heavy, I’ll drown if the current catches them.”

  “We swam in our clothes before,” Xylia says.

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t wearing these pants.”

  “How about you and I go behind those trees and strip down?” Xylia suggests. “Henry can close his eyes while we jump in. Then we’ll turn our backs when he comes in.”

  My belly gets hot, and I think maybe I won’t be able to speak, but I manage to say, “It sounds like a good idea to me.”

  Henry scrun
ches his eyes shut, and me and Xylia pick our way into the bushes. She’s tough. She doesn’t try to stop to slide on her shoes, which makes me admire her.

  “You must have good calluses,” I say.

  “Yeah, dancers have tough feet.”

  “I do too, but not from dancing. I just like to go barefoot.”

  Xylia grabs my hand. “That’s why I love you.”

  The word “love” echoes in my head. Is she trying to tell me she’s in love with me? I want to say the perfect thing back, but instead, I blurt out, “Nice shirt.” My face gets warm. I feel like an idiot. She talked about feelings. I talked about clothes. She’s wearing a silky getup covered with wild splotches in every color of the rainbow.

  Xylia doesn’t seem to think I’m dumb. “Thanks. My dad gave it to me. He’s always buying things for me.”

  “It’s pretty,” I say.

  She shrugs. “Used to be. It’s old. I still like it though. It reminds me of him.”

  I think about how much I hate the presents my daddy buys me. Xylia unbuttons the top button on her blouse.

  “He used to cook, too. Did I tell you that?” she says.

  Shaking my head, I pull my T-shirt off, suddenly embarrassed of my dingy, gray bra. Xylia doesn’t seem to notice. She unbuttons more, and I see a bit of red lace. I catch my breath.

  “You know what I did once?” she says, slipping out of her blouse and draping it over a branch. She’s wearing only a bra and her jeans and her skin, and my heart starts to bang inside me. I look away and I tell her of course I don’t know what she did, since she hasn’t told me the story.

  “My dad was trying to teach me to cook, right? So I decided to surprise him by making corn bread, but I misread the recipe. I put in a cup of baking soda instead of a teaspoon. It was the prettiest corn bread I’d ever seen, all swollen and beautiful.” When she says that, I can’t help but look at the gentle swell of her belly. She unbuttons her jeans. “When dinner came, my dad kept saying over and over how delicious it looked, and then he bit into it. You should’ve seen his face. His eyes got huge. I could actually see his throat jerk like he was going to puke. But instead of spitting it out, he put on this big smile and swallowed it, composing some god-awful poem about heaven’s fruit. I almost believed him, until I tried it myself. The corn bread was disgusting.” Laughing, she wiggles out of her jeans. Her panties match her bra.