by Betty Culley
she’s packing heat.
What color is it?
I asked Clay when I heard Jonah
tease him.
It’s just a gun, he said,
they don’t come in colors.
I didn’t ask him what she was afraid of.
Sometimes my hands
make themselves into guns,
but they are careful
not to point at anything.
Straws
I take photos of Jonah
with my phone.
The back of his neck,
his toes,
his fingers curled in on themselves.
Never the whole Jonah.
Mom says NO
to posting them
on his Instagram,
even though this is
his status now.
Many parts that add up
to his new whole.
Jonah has a special machine
to lift him out of bed.
I call it his Trapeze.
Ready to be an acrobat, Jonah?
Your Trapeze is here.
I think his eyes shine brighter
when he is suspended
over the bed.
Does he imagine
his body has grown wings?
I reach out
on the cafeteria line.
Instead of food
I fill my tray with straws.
I twist the plastic straws
into eight-legged spiders—
lots of them.
My friends laugh at the spiders.
Dangle them in each other’s faces.
Piper, Justine, Rainie talking
Plah Ha Plah Ha Plah
I can hear the sounds
but not the words.
I imagine that is how Jonah
hears the world now.
Snowflake
That boy across the street
sure has a fascination
with this house,
Vivian says.
He stood there last night
with the snow falling on his head,
just staring.
He’s always alone,
never see any friends.
His name is Clay is all I say,
as if that explains everything.
Clay, I say again,
imagining the snow falling
on both our heads.
At first I think I am dreaming—
but there it is—
a paper snowflake
in an upstairs window—
Clay’s room.
My hands touch my face
like they’ve never felt tears before.
Mom’s Lawyer
Mom’s lawyer says
if there’s a trial
he will need a video of Jonah,
if Jonah can’t be there.
He looks uncomfortable
in our kitchen.
No place on the messy table
for his brown leather briefcase.
My hands don’t move
to make room.
HERE, I scroll through my phone.
I HAVE VIDEOS.
I show him the one
I took
of Jonah in bed—
his face half hidden
under the sheet,
making a humming noise
in his sleep.
He hands me back the phone
I don’t think we can use this, Liv.
We’ll need to present what is called
a day in the life of Jonah,
done by a professional videographer.
He raises his voice a little
when he says the word
professional.
Later Mom makes excuses,
He does care.
See, he remembered your name.
I don’t answer
but I clap slowly—
one two three—
having the last word.
The reminder is always there—
a dent
on the right side
of Jonah’s forehead.
The spot you’d press
when you felt a headache
coming on.
The bullet tore away bone
the way dynamite blasts rock—
leaving a soft
crater.
Mom turns away
when the nurses
put cream on
Jonah’s boo-boo.
Tray Art
Next time, I fill my cafeteria tray
with mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard.
My hands invent Tray Art.
Squeezing the ketchup packets
in a big circle.
Making wavy lines with the mayonnaise.
Adding dabs
of mustard.
Kids from other tables
stop by
to watch.
Other kids toss over
more art supplies.
I’m opening a new pack
of mustard
when the lunch monitor
comes behind me
and picks up the tray.
Follow me, please, Liv,
she says.
Inside the principal’s office
the school counselor
has a lot
of questions.
What do we have here, Liv?
What were you thinking?
Wasting all this food?
Encouraging other students
to do the same?
You realize someone has to
clean this tray?
How respectful is that
of the cafeteria staff?
The lunch monitor
carried the tray carefully—
there’s only a few flecks
of ketchup
dotting the mayo.
I smooth them out
with my thumb.
I don’t say it’s
a red sun
streaked with yellow,
melting a river of ice.
No one asks
whose heart needs melting.
My punishment—
suspension of cafeteria privileges
(I can eat lunch
at an extra desk
in the main office)
and four afternoons
helping at the soup kitchen in town.
Maybe that will teach you
the value of food,
he says.
Maybe, I say,
I know the value of food,
just not of condiments.
That gives me
four more afternoons.
Trap
Mom doesn’t call Jonah
by his name anymore.
Jonah is
He
Your brother.
FYI, I tell her,
your son’s name is Jonah.
Watch your mouth,
Mom warns me.
She turns off Suck-It-Up,
and starts up Food Truck,
paying more attention
to Jonah’s machines
than to Jonah.
Sometimes the moans don’t stop.
Ah-rah Ah-rah Ah-rah
Something hurts
but Jonah can’t say what.
Ah-rah Ah-rah Ah-rah
Vivian tries
everything.
It sounds
like an animal
caught in a trap.
Not that I’ve heard one,
but I can imagine.
That’s when she gets me
and my good hands.
I smooth Jonah’s hair,
pat his cheek,
sing.
Help him find a way
out of the trap.
Once,
Jonah’s nurse Johnny
called Mom at Tractor Barn
where she works
when Jonah would not stop.
A-GAH
A-GAH A-GAH
Mom came home
and stood by Jonah’s bed,
watching.
The sounds Mom made
were worse than Jonah’s.
So now the nurses
call me.
Bumper Stickers
When Clay’s father’s car
is parked in their driveway,
I can read his bumper stickers
from our kitchen window.
“Guns don’t kill people.
People kill people.”
“If you outlaw guns,
only outlaws will have guns.”
There’s one more bumper sticker
I try not to look at.
“Gun control means using
both hands.”
Clay’s father’s work van
doesn’t have bumper stickers,
just a sign on each side
with a cartoon drawing
of a big bug running away
and the words
Bugz Away
Pest Management.
Clay dropped out of school.
I don’t blame him.
Who would want to be there
mind reading
what everyone is thinking?
What happened in the attic, Clay?
Did you dare Jonah
to pull the trigger, Clay?
I thought you two were
best friends.
Did you know the gun
was loaded?
Why were you guys
up in the attic, anyway?
How much blood
was there?
Did Jonah have any
last words?
I’ll never work for my Dad,
Clay used to say.
Work must be better
than school—
because he does now.
What kinds of bugs
does he manage?
I once asked Clay.
All kinds—whatever people
don’t want.
How does he “manage” them?
I made air quotes.
You’re not serious, are you, Liv?
Clay said softly then.
He had more patience
for me
than Mom.
I have a theory about
friendship.
One friend is always nicer.
Jonah made everyone laugh.
He could talk to anyone
about anything,
but Clay was nicer.
Soup Kitchen
Elinor is the boss
of the soup kitchen.
Her hair is all white,
even though she doesn’t look
much older than Mom,
and she wears a white apron
that is longer
than her dress.
She gives me an apron
that matches hers.
I think Elinor’s been warned
about me,
because right away
she keeps me busy:
rolling silverware into paper napkins,
loading the dishwasher,
serving shepherd’s pie
with a long-handled spoon.
I like that
Elinor doesn’t ask questions,
doesn’t try to be my friend.
The rhythm of the work
is like a dance:
roll, roll, in and out,
ladle, ladle, ladle.
If my hands are tired enough
maybe they will sleep.
At the end of the shift,
I cut food.
I guess my hands passed some test
to be trusted with a knife.
First potatoes, then carrots,
then onions.
Elinor stares at the cutting board
she gave me.
The pieces don’t all have to be
the same size. This is not a
factory,
Elinor comments.
Okay, I can do that,
I answer.
Snowman
Jonah’s nurse Johnny
has a big laugh,
strong arms,
and a shaved head.
He’s from the South
and this is his first winter
in Maine.
When he says the snow
is sticking in the trees,
it gives me an idea.
I remember that
sticking snow
is snowball snow.
I build a snowman
next to the holly
in the side yard.
It’s been a long time
since we rolled snowballs—
Jonah and I—
but it’s not rocket science.
Big one for the bottom
Medium one for the middle
Smallest one on top.
From behind the holly,
I study Number 24.
This past Thanksgiving
and Christmas,
there weren’t any decorations
on the house
or the lawn.
No cardboard turkeys
or pumpkins.
No big red bow
on the mailbox.
And no Clay knocking
at our door
with a homemade apple pie
from Gwen.
I speak my words
into the swirling snow
but they don’t reach
across the street.
It’s me. Liv.
I’m still here, Clay.
I decorate my snowman
with Jonah’s sunglasses
for the glare—
and put one of Jonah’s Red Sox hats
on top,
brim facing backward—
his signature look.
The next morning
I laugh
when I see that the snowman
has earbuds.
Why does laughing
feel so much like crying now?
Jonah
Sometimes the cries are different—
Wah-AH Wah-AH Wah-AH
It’s dark out, and
I stand there in my Hello Kitty pajamas.
Johnny, out of nurse tricks,
shakes his head and
raises his hands in the air.
This time it feels like Jonah
is calling to me
from a distance,
trying to get back home,
but the ground cracks open
before him
each time he takes a step.
Sometimes,
there is nothing anyone can do.
Line
There’s an invisible line
in the middle of the road
between my house and Clay’s.
When I go out to wait
for the school bus,
Clay’s mom
comes to the middle of that line.
Liv, please leave Clay be.
I’ve seen how he looks
across the street.
Don’t make things worse
than they already are.
Really, Gwen, I take a step forward,
do you think things could be WORSE
for us?
She looks down at the pavement.
I see her mouth open
like she wants to
say something—
but doesn’t.
Hunter
Hunter from school is there
at the soup kitchen.
He’s homeschooled,
but he goes to school
for what he wants—
like orchestra and
civil rights team
and French.
I can’t see Mom
letting me have a deal
like that.
Hunter knows the drill.
He takes an apron
off a hook
<
br /> and puts it on.
He ties it in front.
The white apron
makes his red hair
seem even redder.
What did they get you for?
I ask him.
What do you mean?
he says.
Why you’re here?
Throw your sandwich on the floor?
Spit out your lunch?
Play with your food?
I’ve been volunteering
this past year—
when it fits into my music schedule,
he says.
Yeah, I know,
you got that violin thing.
Hunter gets his own knife
and cutting board.
I push the bag of onions
toward him.
It’s time for someone else
to cry.
Birthdays
When is Jonah’s birthday?
Vivian wants to know.
We could have a little party.
Jonah can’t blow out candles
but does he have a wish
somewhere deep inside?
If Jonah doesn’t use his wish
can I have it?
Big planning starts for Jonah’s
eighteenth birthday
next month.
The nurses love a party.
Vivian tapes a food sign-up sheet
on the fridge.
So far, there’s brownies,
broccoli quiche, and fruit punch.
No worries about what
to serve Jonah.
All his food
goes in his tube.
My birthday is the same week—
Sweet Sixteen.
This year
will be the first
without a present
from Jonah.
He used to hint
that my sixteenth
would be extra special,
but now
I’ll never know
what he meant.
Dead End
Believe it or not
at the end of our street
it says DEAD END.
When we moved in,
that was good news.
Mom said
DEAD END meant safety
riding bicycles
skateboards
trick-or-treating.
Besides DEAD END,
it was extra cheap—
the paper mill
right behind us
belching a stench
we got used to.
Does it always smell like this?
people from away would ask.
No, we’d joke,
it usually smells worse.
The smell was sulfur
from the pulping process,
making supercalendered paper
for the New York Times
Sunday supplement.
Now the mill is closed,
and it’s hard to get a job.
Unless you’re lucky enough
that your dad owns
Bugz Away Pest Management.
The brick mill
with its tall smokestacks
is on the river
