Every Other Weekend

by Zulema Renee Summerfield

  The silence of Rick downstairs in the middle of the night, pretending to read. The silence of every minute when the phone’s not ringing, and the nervous anxiety when it does. There’s also an unspoken pact among the kids not to fight anymore—not for a while, at least. Let things happen first. Let the silence, you know, pass.

  At first there are just seven boxes. Only one of them has a label—“Kitchen”—which is strange because there’s not a plate or fork to be seen. “Kitchen” is mostly old T-shirts wrapped around stuff that doesn’t really need wrapping: two issues of Country-Wide magazine, a bundle of plastic bracelets, a stuffed elephant missing an ear. The second box at first seems to be just a tangle of yarn, but at the bottom Nenny finds a bleached white jawbone, probably from a cow. It’s Saturday and she’s not supposed to be digging through all this stuff. But Mom and Rick are at the hospital, and anyway, who else is gonna keep track of Gramma B’s things? The bone weighs as much as a book and still has some teeth attached, and see? Someone’s got to take note.

  Box three is all Louis L’Amour novels, which is, like, big deal, who cares, but the interesting thing is how Gramma B spent time meticulously underlining in each one: “the sun set fast in the west,” “he had a smoky, hardened face,” “the old mare knew the way to go.” Box four is a silver arm bracelet shaped like a snake, six candles that have never been lit, a denture container with nothing inside, and some tennis balls that clearly belong to Nuisance, that ratty old dog.

  Nenny starts to make a pile. Obviously the snake bracelet, and also the tennis balls. She picks up and considers the bone, and—this happens sometimes—the room starts to feel like it has eyes. Not human eyes, but still, so Nenny puts it back. She covers it up with yarn and waits for the tingling in her spine to pass. It always does.

  Box five is Christmas decorations, and they’re not even the nice kind—just those ugly bulbs that look like hair balls and strings of old lights. Box six holds what looks like a tablecloth but turns out to be a dress. It’s printed with swirls and orange leaves, and only takes up a small corner of the box, which is a total waste of space as far as Nenny is concerned. Box seven is all those stinking doilies and a bunch of office supplies. There’s not a single animal figurine to be found.

  Nenny sighs and lies down on the floor. She bends her knees and puts her feet up against box one, then slowly pushes it as far away from her as it will go. She does the same with box two, scoots her body a little to reach box three, and so on, foot-pushing all the boxes away across the floor. She lies in the middle like a sun at the center of some junk-store universe. She reaches for the snake bracelet and holds it close to her face.

  It’s weird to call someone “Gramma” who’s not, actually, your grandma. One of her grandmas lives in Arizona, and the other died when Nenny was five. She got sick and peed and peed until she couldn’t pee anymore and then she died. She was a mean grandma with a secret pocket of nice—like she’d throw out your favorite hat but then give you a bushel of dollar bills for your birthday. If you asked her what was for dinner, she’d say, “Sauerkraut and pigtails,” but not in a funny way, in a cranky way. Her first baby had died, curled up against her leg—he would have been Nenny’s oldest uncle if he hadn’t died—so that probably explained why she was so grumpy all the time.

  But Nenny doesn’t know anything about Gramma B. Like, what happened to her husband? Or why does she smoke so dang much? What’s gonna happen to Nuisance when she dies? No way can he come live here. One stinky old mutt is enough.

  Nenny rolls to her side and considers calling Boots—to tell her about the snake bracelet, ask her if she wants a dog—but then remembers that Boots is in Arkansas, visiting her grandma. Ugh. She thinks of Frog and Toad. “The whole world is covered in grandmas and none of them are mine!” The house ticks with quiet, because Kat’s gone and the boys are all outside.

  She stands and lets the snake bracelet tumble into a box. It doesn’t even fit anyways. She scoops up the pile of tennis balls—they’re crunchy from dried-up old spit—and goes into the TV room, where Cosby’s sleeping on the floor. Nenny kneels and places the balls before Cosby’s snout—“Here you go, old girl”—but the stupid dog doesn’t do anything, doesn’t even wake up, just snores.

  Ask a Priest

  ASK A Priest Day happens once a month and sounds like what it is: one of Sacred Heart’s priests goes from class to class, answering questions the students have written on index cards. It’s an event at once as exciting and mundane as it sounds. The students are given free rein to ask a priest anything they want, under the protection of absolute anonymity. Which you’d think would lend the whole operation a kind of edge—but the truth is that the children of Sacred Heart are a timid, unimaginative bunch. Their questions are pretty lame.

  Today Ask a Priest is Father Bill. Sacred Heart has three priests: the nice one, the drunk one, and the one with crusty eyes. Father Chauncey is the drunk one. His face is mottled and red and he smells like the bottom of the Communion cup. The nuns look disgusted whenever he’s around. Father Michael is the one with crusty eyes. He looks at you in a way you don’t want anyone to look at you, especially not a priest. Then there’s Father Bill, the nice one. He knows everyone’s name and smiles with Santa Claus wrinkles around his eyes. He never gets grumpy, and he has patience in limitless stores.

  “All right,” he says, standing at the front of the room. “What will we ask today?” He pulls the first card off the top of the stack. “What is the best way to get into heaven?”

  Clearly this is a throwaway question—someone too lazy to come up with a real one—but Father Bill treats each question equally, with the loving calm of a shepherd leading stupid, wayward sheep. “First, love God with all your heart. Turn away from sin and love your neighbor. Say your prayers and do good things.” It’s nice, though a tad confusing, how simple it all sounds, like a recipe for boiled eggs.

  Second question: “Is it wrong to hate my brother? He makes me so mad!”

  Answer: “Siblings are sometimes difficult, aren’t they?” Father Bill chuckles, and see? That’s the thing. Father Chauncey would’ve just launched into some boring slurred diatribe, but Father Bill gets it. “I have a brother myself. We fought an awful lot when we were boys. He was bigger than me and liked to prove it.” Everyone is extra attentive. What a marvelous, bizarre thing—a priest as a boy! “But then our father died”—priests have dads?—“and our mother was very sick”—and moms?—“and my brother and I had to work together and learn to love each other.” He pauses and seems to look directly at all of them at once. “Pray that you may love your siblings, and forgive their faults.”

  For a brief, shimmering moment this seems possible. Now, that’s a good priest!

  Next question: “What do priests eat?”

  “Mostly dirt and worms. We’re very humble.” Boy, that gets a laugh! Even Sister Timothy guffaws and slaps her knee. “But seriously, we eat humbly, and we pray before every meal.”

  See? The guy’s masterful.

  Q: “How did you know you wanted to be a priest?”

  A: “I didn’t know right away. I prayed and prayed for many years until God answered and told me it was the right thing to do. But it’s not for everyone.” He looks at Sister Timothy, who nods. “It’s a life of privation, but it has its rewards.”

  Nenny pictures wearing nothing but drab-colored clothes and eating food out of label-less cans.

  Q: “Why do we have to go to confession if God already knows our sins?”

  A: “Think of confession as an apology. God is like us—when He’s hurt, He wants us to apologize, and when we sin we hurt God. Confessing is a way of apologizing and restoring our relationship with God.”

  Q: “Is it a sin to say bad words but only in your head?”

  A: “Yes. The Lord knows our thoughts and our hearts. Keep your mind clean and your heart pure.”

  Ask a Priest lasts for only half an hour, and apparently Nenny’s question—Do you ever dream abo
ut God?—is not going to be answered, because just then Father Bill shakes a card in the air, smiles, and says, “Okay, last one.”

  Q: “My father says the Russians want to kill us. Is he right?”

  Father Bill’s face darkens like a cloud.

  A: “The Russians?” Spit from his mouth like a distasteful word. “We should pray for their very souls.”

  Fear #22: The Russians

  SACRED HEART Catholic School is the site of the first American-soil battle of the Cold War. Of course no one knows this, so when the bell sounds a series of rapid-fire alarms, everyone’s surprised. “Get under your desks!” Sister Timothy shouts and peers through the blinds. “Oh no, it’s the Russians! Dear God, dear God, dear God!” She crosses herself like crossing’s the only thing left.

  The sound of heavy boots fills the halls. The children cower and tremble beneath their desks. Nenny’s knees shake and sweat beads on her lip and she thinks about all the things she’ll never do: ride a horse through fields of shimmering grass, become a world-famous rock star/fashion designer, grow boobs. A boot kicks furiously at the door, and the door comes unhinged and flies across the room in a neat arc and lands, thump, crushing Sister Timothy at her desk. Too bad.

  Mikhail Gorbachev comes into the room. The Mikhail Gorbachev. He’s flanked by a herd of fierce-but-dim-looking soldiers. He halts them with a flick of his wrist. The room pulses with nervous fear and the terribly unfortunate death of their teacher. Her feet show under the door like in The Wizard of Oz.

  “Children! American children!” Gorby calls in a singsong. “Come out from under desk now!”

  Nobody moves. Katie Marion furiously whispers the Our Father and Michael Barber weeps in a ball. Matty Souza, two rows over, must be keeping his cool, though, because he rolls his pant cuffs in a particular way. It’s hard to describe. You pull the hem of your pant taut and crease it with your finger, then roll twice, as tight as you can. All the girls love him and all the boys want to be him. Nenny glances over and for a moment their eyes meet and maybe this is it? Maybe this is love?

  But there’s no time for love in the Cold War, because Gorby shouts, “I said now!” and everyone scrambles from beneath their desks. Should they sit down? Keep standing? War is very confusing.

  The general secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union stands at the front of their classroom, his birthmark throbbing beneath the fluorescent lights. He’s round and stern, and there’s snow, for some reason, on his coat. He brushes the snow off with his hand.

  “Now everyone sit,” he commands. The children all sit, and the soldiers do too, because they’re clearly morons.

  “Ne ty, idioty!” he yells in Russian, and they scramble to their feet. Gorby casts them a glance that could freeze continents.

  “So this is America,” he says then, sweeping his hand. “Land of free, home of brave.” He spits on the floor. “Moya noga!” He stomps, and the children shiver and quake. “The tyranny of America has gone on long enough! We will no longer be America’s fool.”

  If you think this whole thing is strange, it’s not. For months Nenny has suspected that the Gorbachev from the news—magnanimous, beloved, waving at crowds or shaking Reagan’s hand—is all part of some trick, just another move in a years-long war. Think of a game of night tag: your best friend could turn out to be your fiercest opponent. Never trust smiles and handshakes. Even Nenny knows that, and she’s only eight.

  Gorby goes to the desk and motions with his hand. The soldiers march over and lift the fallen door. Sister Timothy is flat as a board.

  “Remove this vile specimen of church,” Gorby commands, and they scoop her up and toss her out the door. Katie Marion crosses herself and begins to cry. Gimme a break.

  “Enough!” Gorby shouts in her face. The Russians are hard ice-pick men, and ice-pick men neither pray nor cry. Isn’t that what this whole thing is about anyway? The right to pray, cry, wave flags, eat hot dogs and a wide variety of packaged cakes?

  “As soon as American girl is done whimpering like weak dog, we play game.” Everyone glares at Katie, like Shut your blubbering hole, and finally she does.

  A game? How exciting! A giant wheel appears and lively music plays. WIN THE WAR shines in dazzling lights. A mechanical arm comes out of nowhere and plops a toupee on Gorby’s glowing pate, then hands him a sparkling cape.

  “Win! The! War!” the soldiers shout, and everyone cheers. Everyone except Nenny. She’s got the ominous feeling this isn’t like other games. It resembles Wheel of Fortune but likely has higher stakes.

  “Our first contestant, Matty Souza from Somerset Lane!” The crowd goes wild as Matty jogs to the front of the room.

  “Matty, tell us about yourself.”

  “Well, I like to roll my pant cuffs in a particular way. It drives the girls crazy—”

  “Enough!” Gorby’s face darkens. “Spin wheel.”

  Matty gives the wheel a weak spin. It lands on TELEVISION AND FILM.

  “America’s favorite pastime: wasting useless brains,” Gorby says, and all the Russians laugh. Matty looks puzzled. “Never mind, American weakling. Answer this.” He pulls a stack of note cards from his pocket. “What 1985 film begins realistically enough, when strong, menacing Russian boxer pummels American to death, but ends ridiculously with another American winning in ring?”

  Matty appears momentarily baffled, but the synopsis is obvious, though skewed.

  “Rocky Four?” he says, looking up at Gorby.

  Ding! Ding! Ding! Bells sound and the wheel flickers. “You are correct, American scum. Welcome to Red Army.” Two soldiers slap a uniform on Matty, and everyone cheers. Now they all want to be in the Red Army. They go, “Ooh! Ooh! Me! Me!” waving their hands, hoping to be picked, except Nenny, who’s no fool.

  “You, weakling with pale face,” Gorby says, calling Steve Smoot from the crowd. Steve’s perfect for the Red Army—he hasn’t got half a brain. The wheel lands on OUTER SPACE.

  “What is name of satellite proud Russians sent to space in order to demonstrate our marked superiority over brainless Americans?”

  “Oh, I know this.” How in God’s name does Steve Smoot know this? “Sputnik!”

  “That is correct, American scum. Welcome to Red Army.” They slap a uniform on Steve, and he gives Matty a high five.

  This goes on—who’s Edward Lee Howard, define “bolshevism,” where is Lenin’s body and how is it preserved—and everyone gets a uniform and everyone cheers. Finally, there’s only Nenny remaining. Admittedly, she’s torn: she knows that Communist life is a life of privation, a life of drab-colored clothes and food in label-less cans. Still, she hates to be left out.

  “Ah, little girl! What charming American girl.” Gorby stoops and pinches her cheek. She winces.

  “Little girl, are you ready for Big Question?”

  Nenny’s not sure, but she nods anyway.

  “Are you ready to win war?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good.” His lip curls and he turns to the soldiers. “Bring me red phone.”

  There’s an audible intake of breath as someone produces the phone. Everyone knows about the red phone. The red phone has only one button, and it doesn’t dial anywhere but straight to hell. The red phone’s never been used, because it can be used only once. A call on the red phone means that’s it, poof. The end of life as we know it.

  “Now spin wheel.” The evil in his voice is pronounced. In a few months Mikhail Gorbachev will come to speak at the United Nations and practically declare an end to the Cold War. People will celebrate and cheer. His name will be chanted in the streets. He’ll be on the cover of Time magazine. Even then, though, Nenny will think: How do you end a war with just one speech? If war could end with just speeches, why aren’t people giving more speeches?

  Now the phone glows beneath Gorby’s hand while the wheel spins and spins. Where will it land, Nenny? Wherever will it land?

  Sheila Collins

  BACK BEFORE all this—befor
e Mom married Rick at the county courthouse at the far end of the Vegas strip (celebrating with an all-you-can-eat buffet); before Kat and Charles and all their things; before shared bedrooms and milk with dinner and a color-coded chart with weekly chores, wrestling matches in front of the TV, screaming fights over who said what to whom, family trips where everyone is irritable and bored; before all this shuttling back and forth, endlessly, between houses, wearing a path so distinct and persistent and thin you might see it from the moon; before the walls started pushing in and they had to learn to share more and more of less and less space—way back, ancient history back, there was a woman named Sheila Collins.

  In photos crammed in a forgotten drawer, Sheila Collins is roly-poly round and has a pale and doughy face. She looks as though someone thumb-pressed her eyes. Charles won’t talk about her at all, goes completely silent at the mention of her name. And it’s no use asking Rick, because he doesn’t like kids poking around. Nenny knows that if she asks, she’ll just get a lecture about minding her own.

  It comes up because Sheila Collins dies. One Saturday morning Mom’s reading the paper, and suddenly she makes a sound like ha-uh, like being punched, and she claps a hand over her mouth and looks like she might cry.

  “What is it?” Nenny asks, though it’s no rare thing for Mom to read the paper and cry.

  “Sheila Collins died,” Mom says, her eyes fixed on the print. The fridge hums, and it’s strange how no one is around.

  “Who is Sheila, anyways?” Nenny asks. She’s heard bits here and there but not enough to fit all the pieces together.