by Betty Culley
Clay says.
I hold up First Finger.
They can close their nose and ears,
and draw a special clear membrane
over their eyes,
when they are underwater.
Second Finger.
Beavers can create their
own wetland habitats.
Third Finger.
I think their lodges
look like big upside-down
bird’s nests.
Third Finger
is more a feeling
than a fact,
but I think Clay would agree
that feelings
can be facts, too.
I was going to say,
for Third Finger—
A beaver takes only one mate,
which it keeps for life,
but I changed my mind.
I didn’t know
you knew so much
about beavers,
Clay says.
You’re not the only one
with facts,
I tell him,
I’m doing an
independent project.
On beavers?
No, on the whole river.
Great topic, Liv,
Clay says.
Gwen made me
fudge,
I tell him.
Clay puts a hand
on my shoulder.
I know.
Thank you for
taking it.
You don’t have to
eat it.
Why shouldn’t I
eat it?
I love fudge.
I turn so we are
face-to-face.
He keeps his hand
on my shoulder
Can you smile?
I ask him.
Smile?
Like this?
No, with your lips open,
like a real smile.
Clay smiles with his lips open,
for just a second.
Long enough
for me to see
the space.
Thanks,
I say,
and he is nice enough
not to ask
why.
Lawsuit
I find papers
on the kitchen table
from Mom’s lawyer,
full of lawyer words.
“Action for Loss of Services:
Parents of a minor child
may maintain an action
for loss of the services
and earnings of that child
when that loss is caused by
the negligent or wrongful act
of another.”
What services is he talking about?
Taking out the garbage,
finally, after Mom starts screaming
about it?
Helping put away the groceries
by seeing if he can throw the bags of chips
and paper towels into the cupboards
from across the room?
And earnings?
Does Mom’s lawyer think Jonah’s summer job
at the Dairy Whip
would have paid our bills?
“Negligent Entrustment of a Firearm:
Where the entrustor is held liable for
violating a duty of care.
Leaving a weapon where a minor could access it.
For negligence because a breach of duty
provided access to a dangerous
instrumentality.”
I don’t know why he writes “minor”
rather than “Jonah.”
Or why he calls it a
“dangerous instrumentality”
instead of a gun.
Hurricane Chaser
Dad’s job
as a millwright
at the paper mill
was a good one
for Maddigan.
It came with all the things
Mom doesn’t get at
Tractor Barn—
Health insurance
Dental insurance
Vacation days
Sick days.
Before the mill closed
Dad would describe
the different jobs
to Jonah.
Pipe fitter
Electrician
Crane operator
Paper machine operator
Running the coater
Breaking up logjams
No thanks, Dad,
Jonah would say,
I’m thinking
hurricane chaser
or
smoke jumper
or
raptor rehabilitator.
Dad thought Jonah
was just being Jonah—
out there and funny—
but I knew
when Jonah said
hurricane chaser
he could picture himself
flying directly
into the eye
of a storm.
Is that how it is in families?
One child who stays.
One child who can’t wait
to go.
When the mill closed,
Dad stopped telling Jonah
about the jobs.
He’d watch Clay’s father
pull out of the driveway
of Number 24
in his Bugz Away van,
and say,
Now there’s a smart man—
he’s his own boss,
and as long as there’s bugs
around, he’s got himself a job.
French Braids
Most nights now,
Jonah needs
O.
Rumble Rumble Whoosh
Rumble Rumble Whoosh
The O machine
puts me to sleep.
Then Fire Alarm
wakes me—
EEP EEP EEP
and I go into Jonah’s room.
Phoebe is working tonight.
She has a French braid
on each side of her head
going into one long braid
down the back.
Jonah just had a little dip—
he’s back to baseline.
Sorry it woke you.
Jonah is having
more and more
“little dips.”
Does Jonah hold his breath
to set off Fire Alarm
and get our attention—
or is he trying to see
what it feels like
to give up?
Since you are awake, Liv,
can I ask you
some things
about the birthday plans?
The little animal
inside me
dances.
Sure, ask away,
I say.
So, Jonah’s birthday
falls on a Wednesday
and we were thinking
it would be easier
to have the party
the Saturday before,
so everyone
could come.
Plus, I checked,
and your mom
has the day off.
That sounds like
a good idea,
I agree.
I don’t say,
By the way
Saturday is also my sixteenth birthday,
because I suspect Phoebe
already knows that.
Now, about food,
we could give Jonah
a little taste of cake,
or at least the frosting.
What sounds good to you?
Well . . .
I pretend to think
about this one.
Jonah likes vanilla cake
and vanilla icing
for his birthday,
I tell Phoebe.
I suppose you do, too?
No, actually
I’m more of a
chocolate-cupcake double-
chocolate-frosting person,
but get whatever most people
want,
I say.
Hey, did you do that yourself—
those braids?
I ask Phoebe.
Yes, with three daughters
I have a lot of practice.
Do you want me
to braid your hair?
Sure.
Phoebe finds a brush in her bag,
takes her stethoscope off,
and hangs it on the end
of Jonah’s bed.
She gets a chair from the kitchen,
brings it into Jonah’s room,
and sets it in front of her
for me.
Jonah keeps sleeping.
Fire Alarm is quiet.
O whooshes and hisses.
Phoebe brushes and brushes,
her hands pull and weave,
twist and braid.
I sit on my own hands
to keep them from reaching up
and touching.
I want them to be
surprised.
It feels strange but good.
Sitting in one place.
Nowhere to go.
Nothing to do.
Someone else’s hands
besides mine
at work.
Ghost Town
In the winter,
no one cuts ice
on the frozen river
anymore.
The huge icehouses
filled with sawdust
are gone.
No trains run
across the metal
train bridges
high above the Kennebec.
After the mill closed,
Dad got upset
when someone wrote
in the newspaper
that Maddigan
was a ghost town now—
so many stores
out of business,
so many houses standing
empty.
Do I look like a ghost?
he said.
But the way he acted
going from room to room
to room,
staring out the windows—
was a little
ghostlike.
The first week he was laid off,
Dad tightened the loose doorknobs
in the house,
replaced the noisy fan
in the fridge,
and rebuilt
the snowblower motor.
He didn’t talk about the machines
he’d worked on
in the shut-down mill anymore.
Except once,
when he found out
they’d be auctioned off.
I have no idea who’ll buy them,
where they’ll end up,
he said,
it could be anywhere
in the world.
Three Things about Hunter
I met a guy
at the soup kitchen,
I tell Clay
at the river.
It’s warm enough that
I don’t need my winter coat.
I’m wearing black leggings
and one of Dad’s old work jackets
with the paper mill logo
on the front.
You might know him.
Hunter.
He’s a sophomore, too.
He’s homeschooled,
but he also goes to school.
Hunter?
That’s his name?
Just ’cause his parents
named him
Hunter
doesn’t mean he
hunts.
You were at the
soup kitchen?
For a punishment.
It’s a long story.
I do know Hunter.
He’s okay.
His mom predicted the last time
the river flooded the banks.
It probably saved some people’s lives.
I didn’t know that,
but he’s got five
brothers and sisters.
I don’t know how many
of each
or their names.
And his parents
are hippies.
Hmm, Clay says,
I wonder if some people
are like animals
and can tell when the weather
is changing—
if they can feel the
barometric pressures.
Hunter can also
play the fiddle,
I add.
Sounds like
we’re playing
Three Things about Hunter,
Clay says.
Hunter,
I say his name again
just to show Clay
I don’t care
what he’s called,
can play the fiddle,
so I invited him to play at
Jonah’s birthday party.
This is the first time
I’ve said the word
Jonah
to Clay
since the accident.
This time,
it’s Clay
who takes off
and leaves me
alone at the river.
I’m not sure if it’s because of
Hunter
or birthday party
or Jonah.
Mom
When I see
Number 24
from Mom and Dad’s
big upstairs room,
it looks like
just a house.
One of many
on DEAD END,
not there to
remind us
of what happened.
Just a roof,
walls,
windows,
a door,
a pear tree
on the front lawn.
I wish Mom’s view
of 24
could be
like the hawks’
that fly high
over the river.
It feels like
the higher up
you go,
the less everything
matters.
Schedule
My schedule
is the same
every day.
World history
English
Chemistry
Lunch
Geometry
Spanish
Spanish
is my favorite,
because half the class
doesn’t know
what the teacher
is saying, either.
So I fit right in.
Jonah’s schedule
is mostly the same
every day, too,
but sometimes the nurses
and I
switch it up,
and we don’t tell Mom.
Mom acts like the
schedule police.
Mom believes
in the schedule.
It’s posted on the
refrigerator.
It’s her new religion.
It’s the one thing
she can control.
It’s not like Jonah
is a machine.
He’s not going to
run out of gas
and be stranded
on the highway
if Food Truck is late.
If he’s sleeping,
why wake him up
to do a “treatment.”
We like to let Jonah
sleep in,
take a break,
do something new,
change it up.
After all,
Jonah has to eat the same food
every day, and
doesn’t get a say
> in what happens
to him,
unless we help him
have his say.
Jonah has faces
and sounds
that mean different things.
If you’re watching
and listening,
he will tell you
what he wants,
what he doesn’t want.
I think
the Schedule
is Mom’s way
of caring for Jonah
without watching
or listening.
What We Have to Say
Mom’s lawyer wants Jonah
to appear
at the trial,
so the judge or the jury
can see his condition.
Clay will have to
tell
what happened
in the attic.
Clay’s father
will answer questions
about his firearm.
Dr. Kate will speak
about Jonah’s
needs and care.
I have to be there, too
but I don’t know
why.
I worry what my hands
might do
in the big Headwater Courthouse,
or if I’m asked a question,
whether I will be able
to hear what is said.
I suppose Gwen
will be there, too.
Mom’s lawyer
wants a judge,
and not a jury,
to decide who’s
at fault.
He said that’s because
it could be hard
to find jurors
here in Headwater County
who believe that there
should be any rules at all
about what they can do
what they can’t do
with their firearms.
Clay’s father’s lawyer
could ask for a jury trial, himself—
but he won’t,
Mom’s lawyer said—
because he’s afraid
of what a jury might decide
if they see Jonah.
Three Things about the Kennebec
Clay must know
about the trial, too.
His father’s lawyer
might have told him
what to wear,
like our lawyer
told Mom.
What does he mean by
“conservative dress”?
Mom said.
Maybe I can find a
nice skirt and shirt.
Did his father’s lawyer
tell Clay to wear a suit
and cut his hair?
I don’t ask.
I want things
back to normal
at the river.
Our new normal,
Clay and me.
I like what you did
with your hair,
Clay says.
They’re French braids.
Phoebe did it.
Phoebe?
I forget Clay
doesn’t know about
our world of nurses—
Vivian, Johnny, Phoebe,
Jess, Lila.
A friend,
I say,
which is not really
a lie.
I don’t know if the
word nurse would make Clay
walk away again.
I apologize,
