Playing With Matches

by Carolyn Wall

  I try shaking my head, but nothing happens. No part of me works, not one muscle or sinew or joint.

  He comes to me in two strides, takes me by the shoulders and propels me out into the yard, where the air has turned green. The trees blow and bend hard. “I want you outa here, girl. And I’m askin’ you polite—”

  I smack him with my open hand.

  “—I don’t want you to come back.”

  I pound him with both fists, angry fists, blood clouding my eyes, filling my ears, passing through me and around, red and more red.

  “Goddamn you!” I yell into his face, the good side, because he keeps the bad turned away. “I’ve lived my whole life in guilt, and you can’t come along now and make me innocent!”

  “I didn’t come along, girl. I’ve always been here.”

  My legs want to give out.

  He catches me with his hands, same hands, I remember them. And that one green eye. He says, “After the way she treated you, I knew they wouldn’t take you to jail.”

  “You sonofabitch!”

  “Clea,” he says. “You are innocent. You are.”

  42

  I feel crooked—put together wrong—as though my joints are no longer reliable and might carry me in any direction. Auntie and Uncle are home. I barely remember driving here from the prison end of the road. I know the sky looks bad, and the wind is bad, the grass beaten down, Auntie’s salvia broken off. The parlor windows are boarded up. Two tall clay pots have fallen over and shattered against the house, and a plastic cup and other things roll around on the lawn.

  It has been a summer of storms.

  But there’s something more, off center, and, coming in through the screen door, I feel it and see it—even with the blocked-out light. It’s an alteration of things, like a room whose furniture has been turned around. It’s on Thomas’s face too—an honored, almost noble, look. Where has Thomas come by nobility? I try to make sense of it, but I’ve been through too much today.

  Harry is wearing a new striped pullover and red tennis shoes—Auntie must have brought them from Greenfield.

  Luz claps her hands. A bracelet dangles on her wrist. Charms, I think. Silver charms. Wheezer is here, having been called from the Farm, his blond hair tumbling, face grinning, grinning. There is cake on the table, and sandwiches cut in quarters and paper napkins set out. Auntie is still in her pearls and serviceable shoes and holding a piece of paper that she hands to me.

  I unfold it.

  And read. “Auntie!” I take her in my arms. “A marriage license! You and Uncle Cunny! Oh, my Lord!”

  I put my arms around them both, and the three of us hold on as we have not in a very long while.

  “ ’Bout time you got around to it,” Miss Shookie says.

  Bitsy helps herself to a deviled egg.

  Auntie offers an embarrassed smile. “At our age,” she says. “We had blood tests last week, didn’t tell a soul.”

  Uncle looks proud, and his handsome face and brown eyes send pure adoration Auntie’s way. What other junk dealer, I ask myself, wears pin-striped suits and a white shirt and tie? He makes the deals—his partner, Ernie Shiloh, drives the truck.

  “Ernie’s on his way,” Uncle says.

  His pencil-thin mustache is still so trimmed and refined. I wonder how long he’s loved my Aunt Jerusha. Forever. And he does not need to cover his feelings anymore.

  “Got a judge to waive the waiting time because of Greta,” Uncle says, grinning.

  A friend, no doubt. Everybody knows the poker-playing, guitar-picking, how-can-I-help-you Cunny Gholar. “Now that we have the license, Francis, we’d be pleased if you’d conduct the service.”

  Even Bitsy smiles. Luz hugs me, all grins, all happy. Everyone’s happy.

  I am rarely speechless. “Oh, my word. Oh, Auntie. Uncle Cunny, I’m so pleased for you.”

  Ernie Shiloh comes in, roaring, “Well, if it weren’t me marryin’ you, Jerusha gal, it best be Cunny.” There’s more hugging and hand-shaking.

  With her mouth full, Miss Shookie says, “Now maybe Cunny’ll park his ass in a pew at First and Last Holy Word.”

  “Not on your wrinkled old life,” Uncle says. “Francis, you’ll do the honors?”

  “Yes!” Wheezer says, running upstairs for his Bible. He comes down and lines us all up, Miss Shookie standing as Auntie’s matron of honor, and Ernie as the best man. Blessing of all blessings—Harry stands with Uncle too. Gloria. My boy’s spoon is in his right pocket, a ring in the left, and his cheeks are pink, the corners of his lips trying not to smile.

  I flinch only slightly when Thomas touches my arm.

  Now I know where the salvia has gone. Luz plucks a handful from a glass of water, shakes the pretty red flowers over the sink, and folds Auntie’s hand around the damp stems.

  “One for yourself, child,” Auntie says. “I got to have a flower girl.”

  I wonder if wedding synonyms crowd Luz’s head. Her dark Spanish eyes are lit up. I imagine it was Auntie who gave her the silver bracelet—she’s brought them presents for this special day—and it was she who wound Luz’s braids around her head, the way she used to wind mine.

  I want to shout that I love them all, but that would mean Thomas too, and he’s on the outside, not deserving to be in. Still, he is here today, and privy to this priceless thing.

  Wheezer asks if he can lead us in prayer. I hold Luz’s hand and bow my head.

  “Amen,” Wheezer says when he’s done, still grinning. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God to join Jerusha Lovemore and Cunny Gholar in holy matrimony.…”

  I cannot think of anything more holy.

  The late lunch that Bitsy and Luz have prepared is wonderful. Never has baloney with mustard tasted so good. Thomas raves about his daughter’s cake. She is joyful, while Bitsy’s at the table with her head down, shy. Uncle kisses both their cheeks and tells them it’s the best wedding cake he’s ever had.

  Halfway through lunch, Uncle rises from his chair and leads his bride to the bedroom off the kitchen, where his brown suitcase stands in the middle of the floor. The door closes, and we all look at one another and begin to clear the dishes up. Shortly we hear thumping against the wall, on the floor—then laughter, stuff falling and crashing, other loud bumps, and Auntie squeals.

  Oh, my Lord!

  Luz says, “Mom.”

  “Oh, lawz,” Miss Shookie says.

  I usher the children up from the table and we, all of us, stumble out of the house and into the yard. My hair whips my face. There are no lawn chairs because everything’s battened down and locked away. Wheezer’s admiring Harry’s new tennis shoes.

  But Luz, true to her soul, is not done asking. “Commotion, disturbance, fuss. Mom. What was that?”

  Thomas puts an arm across Luz’s shoulders. He says sadly, “Honey, that’s what love sounds like.”

  Even as Thomas is once again begging, “Clea, we have to make time to talk,” the rain comes. Fat drops splatter the lawn, the leaves and hanging moss of the trees, and our faces, and we all hurry inside, into the dark and windowless parlor.

  Uncle comes out of the bedroom, straightening his tie and asking for another slice of that dandy spice cake. Auntie is beside herself with embarrassment and has changed into a housedress. She rummages for candles. I bought some too, at the Family Dollar. Auntie gets down the matches.

  The prelude to the storm is an angry one. Things are out there, banging against the house. Miss Shookie turns on the TV, and we watch as bleary cameras focus, through rainy car windows, at a deserted and roiling coastline. Water covers the road. Wood planks and debris fly end over end, and someone shouts, Find shelter; take cover!

  Greta has increased to a level-four hurricane. Thomas wonders out loud how bad it will get here. Says he doesn’t think hurricanes actually travel upriver. Uncle says, Yessir, they sure do. He tells us that some of his northern kin recalled the 1950s, when Hurricane Hazel rumbled down the Saint Lawrence as far inl
and as Lake Ontario.

  Greta is predicted to do the same.

  “We’ll be fine,” Auntie says, smiling at Harry.

  Wheezer’s Bible is still in his hand.

  Cunny looks at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes to five. He says, “Jerusha, honey, we’ll fill every pitcher and jar with water. This is gonna spawn hellacious tornadoes. Dark as it’ll soon be, we won’t be able to tell one from the other.”

  43

  The rain pounds steadily, frazzling our nerves, forcing us to wait and watch and walk the floor. There are eight or ten candles, a box of matches, and a flashlight, glasses of tea we haven’t touched. Around ten o’clock, the electricity blinks out. We bunch together with two fat candles lit in the parlor, melted onto saucers and sending up thin black ribbons of smoke. In the bathroom, a taper burns in a coffee cup. By the light of a flame, I check my watch. Almost midnight, the wind outside rising in bedlam. We hear the shutters rip off the east side of the house.

  “Cunny,” Auntie says, hands pressed flat in her lap. “There’s a lockbox under my bed. Insurance policies, the deed to the house. I think we should bring it here.”

  Uncle goes with her. He holds her hand. It’s hard to think of them as husband and wife. Wheezer takes the flashlight.

  “Clea,” Thomas says, “could I see you in the kitchen for a minute?”

  Luz clings to me and to Harry and the chair in which the three of us are piled. She has fetched her books. They’re under her feet. Harry noisily sucks his thumb. It was only a few days ago that I bundled him in the woolly and we ran from our home on Lilac Lane to the college, to the motel, to here. My poor children. And poor Auntie and Uncle. What a rotten honeymoon.

  “Thomas, it’s not a good time—”

  “There is no good time.”

  I sigh. “All right. Luzie, sit here and keep your arms around Harry. Dad and I will be just there, by the stove.”

  The problem is, everyone can hear. Thomas urges me into the bathroom, where I insist that we leave the door open.

  “Clea—”

  I sit on the lid of the toilet seat. He pushes back the shower curtain and balances on the tub.

  “What is it? Say what you need to say.”

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “I know this is only a small part of it, but, Clea—you didn’t love me when you married me. We both know I was always on the fringe. But I—I wanted to be first. No, hear me out. Please. I was always second, or third, or fourth, after your work and the kids and the house.”

  “I never ignored you!”

  “It sure as hell felt like it,” he says. “You never really wanted me or needed me. Look, I know what I did was wrong, but—”

  I stare at the floor and wonder—who teaches a woman how to love a man? On that day of instruction, why was I passed over?

  “How many girls, Thomas?”

  “Clea—”

  “How many?”

  “Three.”

  “Sweet Christ. I was giving my life in penance.”

  “Yes, you were. That’s another part of the problem.”

  “I didn’t pass myself around like you did in your office, and God knows where else! I would never do that!”

  “But you do pass yourself around. You’re so perfect. And all I’ve ever been is—old. Jeez, it takes two people to make a marriage—or break it. Can’t some of this be your fault? Can you own half our problems?”

  “Thomas, if you’re caught with a student, you’re going to lose your tenure—”

  “Clea!”

  “I’m—”

  “You’re what?” he says, and then softly, “Clea, why can’t you ever just say ‘I’m sorry’?”

  “I have to get back to the kids,” I say.

  He nods.

  Luz comes to where I’m washing the last coffee cup.

  “Mommy?” says Luz, who never says Mommy.

  I put my arms around her. “I was born on the kitchen table in the house that once stood next door.” I begin as though I’m reading from a book. And maybe I am. Lightning claws at the sky. “Right away my mother brought me here. In a wicker laundry basket.” I smile down onto my daughter’s face, as if the basket is a funny thing.

  Luz waits.

  “And I stayed.”

  “Your mom didn’t want you?” And now I remember where Luz comes from.

  “I guess—she had better things to do. Unlike me.” I cradle her face. “There’s nothing more important to me than being your mom.”

  “And Harry’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was your mom like?”

  “Well, she liked to dance. She was tall and willowy, and she had these pretty legs and red, red lips. Her name was Clarice Shine.”

  “Clarice,” Luz says. “Like you.”

  “Yes. But I never wanted to be called anything but Clea.”

  “Clea Gloria,” says my daughter.

  “She did things that were not very nice. She entertained men.”

  “Mom. I did read the back cover of your book.”

  “Aha. Well. Here’s what we’ll do—we’ll read it together, a few pages at a time.”

  Luz thinks that over. “That would be good.”

  “And we can stop anytime, if either of us needs to.”

  “That sounds okay. Satisfactory. More than adequate. Can I go upstairs and get the book?”

  “If you hurry.”

  And she does. I stand at the kitchen table and watch. She has four volumes stacked in the middle of the living room floor—the two Thomas brought, Auntie’s Bible, and my Halo. I wonder, now, at the title I gave it. I should have called it Prison Annex. Or Surviving Mother 101.

  Outside, the wind howls. It blew like this the night I left here and caught the last bus from Greenfield. Blew me right out of that bus and onto a street, where I squatted on a corner. A few days later I was hunched under a cardboard box. I stole food and coins, and I knew about pain. I found an old razor blade and sliced my palm, watched the red blood flow, and waited for relief.

  And then somebody found me and led me away. I didn’t know what town I was in. I had lost my books and my suitcase. They sat me in a clinic, asked me if I was pregnant or HIV-positive. When they touched me, I flinched. A lady gave me soap and told me to shower and asked me if I had finished high school.

  People moved me around. They gave me a bunk to sleep on and fed me three times a day, although my stomach hurt, and I had diarrhea almost all the time. I washed dishes and made beds in a house, and one day someone put a book in my hands. I smelled the spine, opened the cover. I got a library card. I signed my name to a paper and found myself six hours a day in a college classroom. I wrote things down and read books and took tests. I walked home to the basement room in the big house where I lived. From time to time I went to the little sink and took scissors and opened an inch of skin, then another. I watched my blood run down the drain, taking with it the words that told who I was and who I’d been, and I was glad to let them go. I sliced the tops off my knuckles, and on one occasion I drew a deep line on my belly with a paring knife, then another on the bottom of my foot. With each cut flowed more meaning, until it began to feel extremely purifying. I cut myself once for the Maytubby twins and all they had suffered, and once for Finn, who missed his daddy, and another time, deeply, for the white ringmaster at Auntie’s chicken circus. My secret was both liberation and punishment. I sometimes asked out loud, “Mama, are you happy now?”

  My therapist was Janet. She found me bound to a bed in a psychiatric ward. Even tied down, I clung to those bed rails as if I might blow away. Later, she had me set free and moved into a room with other girls.

  Janet got me a job in a bakery, selling éclairs, and every day she walked with me, down the street and around a corner. In that little shop I spoke to no one. I lined caramel-nut twists on huge metal trays and swirled frosting on cupcakes.

  Every evening I sat with Janet, who asked me t
hings like, “Why do you think you kept going back? To your mother’s house—why did you do that?”

  “I thought one day, she’d change, be somebody else.”

  “Could that ever have happened?”

  No. What a waste. What a waste of a child’s identity and energy and love.

  “Yes,” said Janet.

  From the bakery I brought her a slice of my thirteen-egg-white angel food cake.

  “Do you remember a time when you didn’t hurt?” Janet asked.

  No. Like an underline to the truth about waste.

  “Anger creates chaos,” Janet said.

  “Yes.”

  “What does it sound like—in your head?”

  “Like a million monkeys all chattering at once.”

  She’d smiled. “You have a way with words,” she said. “Sustaining resentment takes a lot of work. You must have been very tired.”

  “Yes.”

  Finally, I told Janet about the fire, all that I remembered.

  Damn Finn. Damn him to hell for poking a hole in my memories.

  The next day I’d gone back to the bakery and eaten a chocolate donut and licked the sticky icing from my fingers. Then I went for a walk. I discovered that the houses in that town were old and grand, the downtown buildings tall and glassy, and the parkway along the water green and in bloom. The cemetery, it turned out, was two hundred years old and shady, and birds sang here.

  Janet helped me enroll in more college classes, and while I occasionally cut myself before an exam, I went on seeing her and wearing Band-Aids while making cinnamon buns. Fall and winter went by and then rewound in spring and summer. On and on, again and again.

  Sometimes I spoke of the men who had come to Mama’s house—guards in gray uniforms that frightened me.

  “Here’s what happened,” Janet said. “Not only did your mother not give you the love you needed—deserved and rightly expected—she gave it to someone else.”

  Back in the bakery, I rolled and sugared and fried peach, apple, and blackberry pies. We sold out every morning. The boss gave me a raise.

  After second- and third- and fourth-year classes, Janet said things like, “Clea, you’re not responsible for your mother. Nothing she did was ever your fault.”