“It’s an awesome—” You widened your eyes, tilted your head toward the Lego.
“Velociraptor catcher,” he supplied. “With fangs and lava-shooters.”
“Well, of course. That’s what I thought it was. ’Cause it doesn’t have wings, so it couldn’t have been a pterodactyl trapper, could it?” He shook his head in agreement while his pudgy fingers fiddled with rotating pieces.
“Besides, you wouldn’t need lava for pterodactyls, would you?”
“Nah, you need a shooting star machine for them, Mamma.”
You drew James closer to you then and gave him a kiss on his left cheek. He giggled, squirming until he faced you directly. Magic, I thought. I leapt across the table and balanced on one toe atop the sugar bowl. A little nudge shunted in the right direction is all it would take to draw your attention to James’s cheek, so I blew you a kiss and—
“Oh, James—how exciting! No, not the shooting star machine—I mean, that’s exciting—but no, that’s not what I meant. What a lucky boy you are: you’ve got an eyelash on one of your cheeks! And if you can guess which one it is, you’ll get a wish!”
Fairy lights of joy shone in James’s eyes.
“Pick a cheek,” you said, turning your head away, so as not to influence his decision.
Very serious now, James closed his eyes. He concentrated, bunching his face up the way he does when forced to choose between chicken nuggets or grilled cheese at Pete’s Roadhouse. Chips or cheese? “You can only pick one,” you’d say. Wish or no wish? It was a momentous decision.
Choose well, buddy, I thought. There’s not much I can do if you pick the wrong one.
Honouring the solemnity of the occasion, James slowly lifted his hand, extended a reverent finger, and pointed to his right cheek.
A heartbeat passed—one of yours, not his. Your boy’s chest fluttered, yours was measured, a reliable metronome—then two beats. James’s eyes flicked open on the third beat, interrogating.
“Did I get it right, Mamma?”
Slowly, slowly, you took his wavering finger and pressed it into the lash. “You’re right!” He rewarded your excitement with an exuberant, gap-toothed smile.
Here comes the good bit, I thought, moving closer to see the outcome.
“Now make a wish. And when you’re ready, blow the lash off your fingertip otherwise it won’t come true.”
James gazed with due deference at the lash teeter-tottering on his finger, and held his breath to avoid disturbing his prize. Exhaling carefully, he closed his eyes once more.
“Stop filling the boy’s head with all that airy-fairy shit, Sal. You’re turning him into a fag. That’s why he can’t kick a football, why he cries all the time—look! See what I mean? He’s at it again. You’re making him soft with that shit, I swear.”
James opened his drowned eyes to glare across the living room.
“Make your wish, my beautiful boy,” you whispered, placing a slender hand on your son’s head, turning his face toward yours. He blinked several times; I captured as many of his tears as I could, drank away his salty hurt.
On his still-extended finger, James’s wish waited.
With intense focus, your boy drew a deep breath, puffed his vulnerable chest out, and blew.
As James wheezed, a nimbus bloomed on his fingertip. Prismatic beams scouted across his hand and wrist; luminous way stations dotted his arms, laced around his legs, and girded his torso with their warmth.
Well chosen, I thought. Such a clever boy.
Constellations appeared all over his body. Light draped, cloak-like, across James’s shoulders. A mask of illumination shone across his tear-stained cheeks, shielding his eyes, growing into a helm that protected his thoughts. Sunny gauntlets and noontime greaves sheathed his scrawny limbs, while moonlight laces secured his armour in place. Thus attired, James stood perceptibly straighter; ready to confront and conquer any breed of monster. Resilience burnt just a bit brighter in his reinforced eyes.
His father’s gaze was successfully repelled. It slid away from his son and lodged once more on the box sitting on the milk crate across from his chair. Hollow projections flickering from the backside of a transparent screen attracted all of his attention.
“I can’t get any bloody disability payments, and the fuckers won’t take me back ’til September. Liability, my ass. I could do that job with two busted arms, for Christ’s sake. Half the guys are jerking off all day anyway—so how’s my working with a broken arm any different?”
“I could work,” you offered. “I mean, now that I’ve got my diploma and all. I could start applying for some jobs, see how it goes?”
“Oh, you could, could you? Well, doesn’t your shit just shine? What are you saying? ’Cause what I’m hearing is that Princess went to night school, and now she thinks she’s hot shit. So what? You trying to tell me if I had a degree, I wouldn’t be in this situation? A goddamn piece of paper wouldn’t’ve saved my arm from the press, would it? Nice fucking sympathy you’ve got on you, Sal.”
“All I meant was I could get a job at the grocery store, or the bakery. Maybe. Whatever. I was just trying to help.”
He shook his crimson head. Bridges of spit stretched between his lips as he shouted. “Why you so keen to get out of here all of a sudden? What’ve you got up to while I’ve been slaving away at work all day? You hooked yourself some boy toy in town? That why you’re so hot about getting a job?” His tongue flicked to the corners of his mouth between each accusation.
You kept your voice quiet, but it wasn’t enough. “Stop being such an arsehole. It’s not my fault you’re sore.”
Uh-oh, I thought.
“It’s not your fault, eh Sal? What about that kid you brung me? Hey? What about that? I’d wager my good arm he sure as hell is your fault. Said you were on the pill—my arse! And what about—”
He just kept going, broken record-like. You know how he gets when he fixates. Eyes a-bugging, nostrils a-flaring; there’s no reasoning with him when he’s doing his crazy-crazy impersonation. But who am I to tell you all this? You were there. I don’t really need to subject you to the whole episode again, do I?
You know, kiddo, I would’ve stopped him if I could have. I swear it. But my powers can only stretch so far, even when I’m fully equipped. And even then, when I’ve got two arms, all my fingers, at least a toe or two, and my wings, preferably—even then there are some realities my parts can’t prevent.
I cried as I watched. I stayed by your side, suffering in my impotence while you suffered because of it.
When it was all said and done, and you’d retreated to the sofa-bed, I curled up in the purple curve of your eyes while you slept. It was the least—let’s face it, kid, it was the most—I could do. I would have crawled into your heart, insinuated myself into your mind, erased the memory of the whole episode, if only. Instead, I bathed in residual tears. Soaked up the aftermath until my body was tumescent with your violet pain.
Your face was nearly set to rights by the time dawn squeaky-cleaned its way into morning. Superficially, at any rate. I’d have to work a few more nights to erase the haunted look in your gaze, the echo of violence in your features. James didn’t notice the swelling when you offered him a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast. He simply asked you to pass him the box, then dug around in it for the plastic prize. An innocent smile twinkled in your direction when he retrieved a pen filled with invisible ink.
When you congratulated him on his find, he asked if you’d like to use it to fill out your job applications. He was sure your new bosses would think it was pretty neat, having a magician as an employee.
Your uniform drooped as you waited for the elevator to drag its arthritic bulk down to the ground floor. The paper bags in your arms matched the expression in your eyes. Rebellious tins of kidney beans, obnoxious rolls of toilet paper, and apples with the shine of street-br
awlers were defeating the bags sneaky-like. Tearing things up from the inside.
The lift’s heavy steel doors mimicked the firm line of your mouth: pressed shut with no sign of opening. I popped up to the apartment while you scuffed your dingy sneakers along the imitation marble floor downstairs, waiting.
His plaster cast peeked out beneath the folds of her skirt as she straddled him on the sofa-bed. Startled, I popped back down to the ground floor before my brain could register the contorted shapes on the couch, before my footless legs had even brushed the surface of the coffee table as I materialized in the living room.
But you weren’t downstairs any longer. The light above the closed metal doors teased me, boasted that you’d reached the second level. I popped into the grocery bag propped between your right hip and the mirrored wall. Your reflection rolled its eyes as the ancient tenant from apartment 204 inched her walker into the elevator. Her irises seemed to consume the thick Nana Mouskouri glasses she wore, and she blinked twelve times between each laboured footstep.
“We’re going up,” you said, hoping to dissuade the cornhusk doll from entering the tiny lift.
“That’s fine, dear,” she replied. “I’ve still got a few rides left in me, never you worry.”
Stop stalling, Nanna, I thought. There’s a humpy-bumpy sort of ride happening on the sofa upstairs, and Sal’s got to get up there quick-smart if she’s going to catch the bastard!
The brunette moaned when I popped back into the apartment. She sighed dramatically, flipped her long hair around in circles like some ridiculous porn star. He didn’t notice her theatrics, focused as he was on his inner eyelids, on the swell of her arse in his hands, on the churning of her hips on his.
Out in the hallway, I gauged the elevator’s progress. Fifth floor. The contraption was, officially, the slowest of its kind. It would have been quicker if you’d sat on that old bag’s walker and let her drag you up the stairs. I popped back in to see you. Your eyes were fixed to the numbers above the door as if by staring they could somehow power the antiquated machine into the next century. The old lady’s lungs rattled. She coughed up a honeycomb of phlegm.
Back to the apartment. An extended grunt and he was finished.
Shit, I thought. He never had been one for lengthy tumbles, so I don’t know why I thought he’d start today. She peeled herself off of him, leaned over to unravel the panties strangling her left ankle, hoisted these dainties up and pulled her skirt back down. I watched as the sparkle left her—It’s always disappointing for you girls, isn’t it?—and saw the glimmer settle at her stilettoed feet. She asked for a glass of water; he tossed her a beer and an envelope instead. She chugged down the first, pocketed the latter. And then she left.
The latch on the fire door clicked shut as the lift doors groaned open on the seventh floor. Your floor. But you were too late.
I could have cried.
He was snoring like a bull on the sofa-bed when you unlocked the front door. Kicking it shut with your heel, you dropped the grocery bags on the dining table and then crossed the room. You stared down at him, entranced-like, for a minute or two. Your face was impassive, but your hands were all ball-y and white around the edges. They quivered to some inaudible rhythm. Then you reached down and grabbed the crocheted blanket folded on the back of the couch, and draped it across his satiated form.
I only noticed it once you’d left the room. Hoo-ee! I whooped with delight.
The trollop had left her sparkle behind, ground into the carpet next to the couch’s leg. Waiting for you to find it.
The tiny diamond was pinched between your fingertips as you half sat, half knelt on the guilty sofa-bed. It wasn’t diamond, really. More like cubic zirconium: I’d bet my last finger on it. Whatever it was made of, rock or chiselled glass, its tiny glare held you in thrall. I stared at you while you stared at it; he stared at the TV. We held our breaths in unison.
“Whose is this?” you said, finally. Your voice was sandpapery. The words raced out of your mouth before they could be shaped properly.
“Next time on Holiday,” blared the television, “move beyond the comfort of your own backyard! Cut loose and visit the wilds of—”
“Whose? Is? This?” Louder this time. The tiny prism refracted light from the tips of your fingers as you thrust it into his line of sight. The earring shone, highlighting his rough jaw; a miniature detective’s lamp pinpointing its shady subject.
Indecision flickered across his drooping face. He feigned disinterest, but his usually sedate eyes had adopted a frantic shift.
“Dunno. Must be yours, hun.”
“It’s not mine.” Your heart turned all feathery as you spoke. Your voice shed years, jumped octaves. A smile flew across your lips, practically singing as you repeated, “It is not mine!”
When he opened his mouth to make excuses, to try and convince you to stay, to spread the guilt of years on you like rank butter, I dove in. I jumped into his seething gob, filled it with every inch of my misshapen body. I rammed my legs down his throat and propped his jaw wide with my arms. I inhaled every lie he tried to utter, and bought you the time you needed to speak.
Wires Uncrossed
In the stillness before dawn, Boeing rolls over in his bunk and eavesdrops on people’s thoughts. The words are atomized, electronic fragments. Buzzing along fibre optic cables. They’re spoken, then broken into Humpty Dumpty jumbles. Eggshell phrases speed overhead, travel from mouth to ear until spiral cords and numbered boxes put them back together, give them meaning. For two weeks he has concentrated as hard as he can, but Bo still can’t understand everything they say. He can hear the steady hum of their emotions, though; their sad rhythms, their happy cadences. He closes his eyes and tries to listen carefully.
Sometimes it’s too much. There are nearly as many telephone poles as squat mobile homes in Kaintuck Estate trailer park. Reaching above the rooftop forest of TV antennae, the timber posts are the only real height on a cornfield horizon. Nearly all of them carved, inscribed with ragged graffiti and local couples’ initials. Between the tips of their arms, a trapeze net of wires curves from one end of the lot to the other. All night the crosshatched lines are alive with news, carried from miles away. Secrets revealed two counties over are sent to Kaintuck for safe keeping. Falsehoods spread like lightning, spearing at least twelve trailers before Bo rubs the dreams from his eyes. Hundreds of thousands of words whisper, shatter, and sob. So many voices for one boy to take in, pouring from the wires.
Bo holds his breath and strains to catch a hint of Mamma’s hot chili voice among the rabble. There are plenty of wives calling husbands, but none of them are his mother.
It ain’t natural, Charlie had said, when he’d told her about it a fortnight earlier. He had focused on her long brown ponytail while he spoke. It bounced on her backpack, kept time with her skipping-walk. Bounce, swish. Bounce, swish. Her hair was never still; her heels never touched the ground.
I’m serious, Char. Late spring had freckled the bridge of her nose. He followed the vertical stripes on her t-shirt, down to her cut-off shorts. Her legs were muscular, golden. (She wasn’t his girlfriend, no matter what the other kids said.) He couldn’t meet her eyes when he admitted, I think they’re getting louder.
Bounce, swish. Swish, turn. Stop.
Charlie dropped the dandelions she’d collected from the side of the road. She’d reached up with her weed-stained hands, turned his face like she would a dog’s. Looked at him directly. Keep talking like that, Bo Stearman, and they’ll send you to the Reverends to get your head read.
He’d known she was probably right. So he’d smiled, told her he was just kidding. Thought it best if he failed to mention the foot-long tendrils that had sprouted out of his chest.
Now, lying in bed, he watches them undulate like sea anemones, waving back and forth under the current of his breath. He gouges the itchy flesh at the base of each
phosphorescent strand, digging for relief. Static sparks as he scrapes at his skin, filling the room with the scent of raw ozone.
“Shhhhh,” he says to calm HeeHaw, who is whimpering and sneezing in the bottom bunk. The dog has been acting odd for days; unsettled and overly whiney. Nestling deeper into his sleeping bag, Bo obscures the weird glow the tentacles emit. (That’s what they look like, he realizes. Tentacles). Naming them doesn’t make them itch any less. Doesn’t make him feel any better about what he’s done to earn them.
His cheeks prickle with shame.
What would the Revs say about these, Charlie?
He presses a pillow tight against his torso, revisits an invented scenario he’s replayed a thousand times since Mamma left. This time, when he goes back to that night, he imagines he’s not alone. That the Reverends have come to absolve him of responsibility. That they’ve taken it all upon themselves. In this new version of events, he’s got two of them at hand, bursting with advice. One, a gap-toothed man, is too tall to sit properly on the bottom bunk. The other, a green-eyed Rev with flaxen braids, is leaning against the doorframe, cowboy hat in hands, waiting for Bo to make a move. The men will talk over his head and around him. As if he weren’t there at all.
Rev One: She’s been blubbering all day—shouldn’t Bo go out and comfort her? For the sake of appearances?
Rev Two: He don’t understand. Besides, he gots his headphones on. He don’t need to hear this. We’ll explain later.
Rev One: He ain’t actually switched the music on yet; he’s only feigning deafness.
Rev Two: Ah, that old trick.
(Sometimes Bo interjects at this point: I don’t know what to say!)
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