Shelter

by Jayne Anne Philips

  "Yeah, but I just told her I tripped and got a little cut on my mouth."

  "You did?" Alma was amazed, not that Delia lied, but that Mina accepted the lie so easily. If Alma had admitted to any accident at camp, her own mother would have gotten into the car and driven the fifteen miles to see the damage for herself. Audrey believed that scars on a girl's face were serious. Delia already had some scars, little ones, from chickenpox. Audrey had remarked on Delia's scars more than once. Nothing but negligence on Mina's part. You were four when you had chickenpox. I made you wear gloves. At night I used stringed mittens and knotted them close together. Oh, you hated them, but your complexion is perfect. Alma knew better than to mention she liked the scars; they were like pretty starbursts at Delia's temple.

  "It's all stiff," Delia said, "but at least I won't have to talk to anyone today."

  "We don't talk to anyone but each other anyway. Right?"

  Delia nodded. "Today is hobby hours. You can make more flower pictures. You can make mine again."

  Alma would, though the dust of the dried flowers made her sneeze. At least during hobby hours she could sit at a table like a human being and not be fooling with bows and arrows, or tying knots on a board in the sun. She closed her eyes to hear the bugle's shriek, to concentrate on Frank, see him alone on the dewy quad, but she heard silence, a morning silence dense only with minute sounds.

  "Look." Alma nodded into open space, for she saw Frank walking away across the level green, holding the bugle aslant at his hip, the bell of its mouth pressed against him. He walked back toward the dining hall into a glimmer, a trick of the light, and beyond him a pickup truck glided along on the grass, soundless as a boat on a sea.

  "It's over," Delia whispered.

  The last wind was in the trees. They clambered up, an awkward beetle, running headlong to be back in the cabin before McAdams arrived in B wing with her clipboard.

  BUDDY CARMODY: TWO GIRLS

  They were singing from church still, all night they'd kept on. Buddy wanted to watch Frank blow reveille, hear Frank from inside the camp kitchen with Mam. But he slept so hard he couldn't move and there were words in his mind: Mam had sayings she'd taught him to think if his prayers were said and he still couldn't sleep. Sing-songs, she called them, and he liked the one about the woods that had trees, and a lot of soft dark with nothing but wind, because he thought the words at night when he was safe, or he was safe when Mam told him the words: Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen. Rushy glen was like the name of a town or a road, a fork of some road that twisted back through the county, and Arey's Feed Store was the big wooden store near the train tracks in Gaither, but no train stopped there anymore. Mam and Buddy had to take the bus through Gaither and Bellington clear to Winfield to get on the train, and the train was like sleeping too, how it rattled and swayed him in the dark and Mam told him sayings then, the same words that always got him sleeping, glen, glen, we dare not go a-hunting, for fear of little men. A dare was a tease kids said to get you into trouble, but little men didn't make trouble, Mam said they were very little, like elves. Elves were afraid of people and people were afraid of them, they stayed away from each other, that sounded good, and his favorite part was wee folk, good folk, trooping all together, green jacket, red cap, white owl's feather. The owls in the trees sat hooting in the dark but sunlight was in Buddy's eyes; hunters went out at night with lights that bright and the animals couldn't run, a rabbit could freeze in a car's headlights, miners wore headlights, lights on their hard hats. But down in the tunnels of the deep mines there were no animals, just rock and coal and water rattling, Dad said. Dad had worked in the mines. A long time ago when he worked, Mam said he had a job and made good money and plumbed the house—that meant pipes to carry water. In the trains there were little sinks and metal toilets, how could trains have pipes for water, a saying was words you called to mind and never forgot, you could always find them. He wanted to be like the little men, walk in a line all the same. Hidden away. Down along the rocky shore, some make their home, a shore was like a riverbank and Buddy could live by the river. He could have a tent like Frank's and use all the big pipes that sat along the riverbank, make a fort of branches leaned against them. Mam said the pipes would get buried later when they brought in a bulldozer to cover up the trenches, that would happen when camp closed, a trench was a long ditch, no light in a trench, the pipes would roll in and lie still. Buddy wanted to move but the words came in their singsong to say he was still asleep, he was hungry and sleeping and he should already be awake. They live on crispy pancakes, of yellow tide foam, that sounded so good, like sweet cracker, Mam, wouldn't it be? Where was she? In his sleep, he listened for sounds, the rattle of the kettle, her footsteps on a floor. Yellow foam was bubbles and floating, like how the stream got scummy. Runoff from the mines was dirty, but food the little men ate would be clean, full of air like the cotton candy Mam bought him when the carnival set up in Gaither every spring. Dad had been gone when the carnival came in trucks with the metal rides folded up, but Dad was here now. Buddy called him Dad. Some swim the reeds, of the black mountain lakes and Dad made the house full of that same deep water. Buddy dreamed the house swam off in strange angles now, stretching so he couldn't see into all the rooms. Things hid with frogs for their watchdogs, all night awake. Buddy heard the radio coming from the porch, but Mam never played the radio, they left so early for camp. Something was wrong. He opened his eyes and lay still.

  There was the chair and the footstool Mam propped her feet on at night. Down the room a way he couldn't see into the bigger bed. The dark green blanket Mam had hung for a divider was still; no one moved behind it. The woolly cloth was nailed right onto the ceiling but had pulled free in one corner and drooped. The same sunlight that fell almost direct into Buddy's eyes played in panels across it. Mam had left him, gone to cook and left him here asleep. She'd left him sleep because he hadn't waked up in time, and now he'd have to get away without Dad seeing him.

  She didn't know about Dad. She didn't know.

  He found his clothes at the foot of the bed where Mam always put them, and he got out of his pajamas noiselessly. His bed was a metal cot just like the girls slept in at Camp Shelter; it squeaked something awful every time he moved. Mam had brought it home just before camp started. Borrowed it, she said. Before that, in the first week Dad was back, Buddy had slept on an air mattress on the floor, softer and better; it was like since the bed came, Dad could hear Buddy's every turn or twitch all night, and started to notice him in the days.

  Naked, he crouched on the floor beside his cot, got into his pants and shirt. The radio was playing so clear, no static. No other sound, like there were tiny girls singing out there about a boyfriend. Hey la, hey la, wait and see! Boom boom! Drums in the plastic box of the transistor. Dad might be in the back and Buddy should go out the front. Or he might be on the porch, just waiting, and Buddy should go out the kitchen door and around by the woods.

  He was halfway across the kitchen linoleum. The red and white diamonds were flecked with yellow and Buddy had a charm about keeping his feet exactly within their dimensions and making it out the door.

  "Hey there, boy," said a voice. "What about breakfast?"

  Dad stood behind the porch screen door, a shape, tensed on the balls of his feet. He was fast, a fast runner, long and skinny. Buddy was nearly as fast. But he didn't want to run into the woods, lead Dad into the trees. He stood still, feeling the cool of the floor move up through his feet, into him.

  "Come on out here," Dad said. "Come see what I got parked down here in front of the house." He held the door open.

  Buddy moved through it, past him. He went to the far side of the porch, by the railing, and looked down at the car. It was a red car with a dented fender. All the windows were rolled down.

  "I got you something too," Dad said.

  He held out a blue leather bag in one hand, a pull-string bag open at the mouth. Buddy leaned to look inside and saw marbles, cat's-eyes and
a big shooter. He reached out but Dad pulled the bag away, then jumped back on his toes and made as if to throw it. Buddy was supposed to catch, and the leather pouch landed in his cupped hands.

  "You know how to shoot? I can teach you. After breakfast." He eased himself into his chair, watching Buddy. "I figured you two were at church last night," he said.

  Buddy nodded.

  "While you were gone I took me a little walk out to the road. Got a ride into town. Damn if I didn't meet up with a nice little lady, wants me to take care of her car for a while." He tilted back in the chair and propped his feet across the railing. Buddy couldn't get through to the steps unless he ducked under, and if Dad wasn't drunk, his arm could shoot out and grab whatever moved, quick as the flicked tongue of a lizard.

  "I don't mind doing a favor," he said now, and cocked an eyebrow at Buddy. "You mind?"

  "What's that?"

  "You mind doing a favor?"

  Buddy shook his head.

  "Then put that bag of marbles in your pocket. Go in there and get the tomato juice out of the refrigerator, and my pint of vodka. I'll eat light."

  Buddy went back inside. He could get out the back door now, but Dad would only catch up later. He opened the squat icebox and stood staring. For a crazy instant he thought of getting inside, fitting right between the nearly empty metal racks. "Well?" he heard from the porch. "And bring some ice." The tray was so cold it stuck to Buddy's fingers. He had the six-pack of V-8 in one hand and the pint bottle of vodka under his arm and the cold ice tray burning into his fingers; the screen banged as he went out. He wished he had a gun. Beyond the porch there were butterflies, six or seven bright yellow ones, dropping and starting like some little whirlwind had them in a swirl. But the morning was still and hot.

  Dad had his shirt off already and he took the ice tray and whammed it against the porch rail near his chair. Splinters of ice flew everywhere and a couple of big chunks skidded along the board floor. "She goes off to cook for a hundred girls and leaves us here to shift for ourselves. You believe 'at?" He smiled up at Buddy, waiting. Then he said softly, "You forgot the glasses, Miss."

  But he had them sitting on the floor, under his chair, two plastic tumblers. Buddy leaned over and picked them up.

  "Now you got the glasses," Dad said. He put ice into both of them and poured Buddy some juice and himself a pale red mixture. "I been waiting for you to wake up," he told Buddy. "My god, all that religion must have tired you out. Couldn't skittle out the door with her this morning." He drank down the glass and poured another. There were flecks of moisture on his lips. "Bud-eee, Bud-eee," he said, mimicking Mam, saying the name in the drawn-out way she pronounced it when she called Buddy in from the road or the woods. He shook the ice in his glass and the liquid moved, and he drank it then, fast, his Adam's apple moving in his throat. "Chugalug," he said, watching Buddy.

  Buddy picked up his own cup and began to drink. He had to just keep drinking the cold, thick juice. He had to drink without stopping.

  Dad was drinking too, another glass, then he put in more ice and poured the rest of the pint in, only faintly pink, and he drank it, blinking, and his eyes got wet. He pointed at Buddy. "I'm going to be taking a ride, now I got me a car. Just need me a stake." He laughed. "Maybe I'll take you with me. That would get her goat, wouldn't it."

  Buddy stepped back, drinking.

  Dad leaned forward, like a bird arching its long neck. "You don't want to come, though, do you. Nah." He took a deep breath, then, in one long motion, heaved the empty bottle into the air, out from the porch. It tumbled end over end, twinkling a little, and fell soundlessly into the brush down the bank, on the other side of the road.

  Buddy could hear himself breathing. In. Out.

  "You and your Mam," Dad said. "You a couple of girls, ain't you."

  Buddy knew not to answer yet. Not to move.

  "Well, ain't you? Couple of girls? Or not. Yes or no?"

  Buddy nodded. He held out his glass.

  Dad put an ice cube in it. "Two girls," he said. "Then do what a girl does."

  Buddy put the ice cube in his mouth and held it.

  Dad took hold of Buddy's wrist and turned away in his chair, so Buddy stood just behind him. Maybe he would leave the radio on this time. But he turned it off. He breathed a few times, jerked his head hard like he was shaking water off, settled in, opened his fly. "All right then," he said.

  Buddy took the big ice cube from his mouth, his jaws aching. He held it in his free hand and moved it over Dad's head, in his hair, around and around, then down onto Dad's neck. Dad began to breathe like he did, his feet down off the rail, his legs spread out in front of him. He would have hold of himself by now but Buddy kept watch on the solid bank of trees across the road, their foliage level with the porch. Their leaves moved; Buddy strained to hear them, heard them, made the sound big in his ears. A saying in the air, a singsong that stayed awake. He could see the air whisper through the leaves, track its movement, like some form made of air was in the trees, and he kept his eyes on the shape that rippled there. He moved the ice along Dad's white, freckled shoulders but he didn't look at them anymore; he had to move the ice down Dad's chest, onto Dad's flat brown nipples, into the hollow between, exactly right, to get it over with. He had to do just this, the same each time, exactly the same. Buddy could hear Dad slapping, straining, but Dad couldn't make Buddy look; he couldn't see Buddy's eyes. Even someone walking right below couldn't see up on the porch, and there was no one to hear. The trees rustled, their layered foliage ruffling out toward Buddy, then moving backward, pulled in as though what was far behind the trees beckoned, nodding. Buddy had to lean over Dad's shoulder to reach down his belly with the ice, and Dad began to whimper. He tensed until his whole body seemed to vibrate and his grip on Buddy's wrist squeezed like a vise. When he started to talk it was almost over. "Don't do that to me," he would say, the words all run together and his voice high-pitched, shrunken. "Don't do that to me don't do that to me." But he wasn't talking to Buddy. Buddy was supposed to move the ice, not stop. And there was a pent-up squealing, and Dad was finished, and Dad was crying. He let go of Buddy then and Buddy could run, he was supposed to, if he was still there Dad would yell at him, "What are you looking at? You get away from me you leave me alone!"

  The first time, Buddy had watched, he had looked, but now he never looked. He ran down the porch steps, across the road and down the bank into the trees. He ran yelling, pouring it all out of himself into the wide woods. Today he threw down the stub of ice and jammed his wet hand in his pocket. The leather bag of marbles clanked into his palm as he ran toward the camp to Mam.

  PARSON: DUMP RUN

  One long, thin swath of cloud drifted above the river's surface as though a ghostly swimmer had metamorphosed and arisen; beyond it the bleat of the kid's bugle erupted its piercing assault three times and stopped, leaving a quiet so dense Parson heard the minute creaks of the swinging bridge above them, a hundred yards to their right. The murmurings of the men over their coffee seemed not language but river sounds, and this space by the low-lying water seemed a forgotten shelf, a location in which they were placed and held. The men referred to themselves as the dirt platoon, as though they were soldier remnants of some small castoff army delegated to dig and haul; it was Private, hump it, for Chrissakes! or Sarge, gimme a smoke! By noon their faces and bodies were powdered and smeared with dirt but in the mornings they looked nearly pale, cursing and grunting, passing Parson a steaming plastic cup. The coffee at his lips was hot and bitter and he thought about the name, Lenny, until it was merely a sound, a feeling, a twinge in his guts. He watched the river cloud begin to break up, drift, pieces of white amoebic mist eaten by the air or the warble of the water, and he wondered if any of the others had seen it. The foreman was laughing, nodding at him, going on about how Parson's assistance was requested by the front office, that fucking dame and her junk, dump run, they'd have to offload this pipe and let him take the truck for an hour. It was a jo
ke and they always made Parson go, since he seldom talked and seemed to do what he was told, and that dame drove everyone up the wall. They made like they were going to start in digging but Parson knew they'd sit on their flats smoking cigarettes, and he took the keys and the others finally rose to begin unloading, two men to a pipe length. To Parson it seemed the others had been here forever, marking time; if they were an army, they fought only the heat of the long days and the weight of the pipe, and there was no commander but the endless whisper of the river. It was the river that spoke and talked, not this crow-voiced foreman who gestured at him now, telling him to git on, do his good deed and get the truck back.

  Grasshoppers flew up around him, dozens of them, disturbed as he drove along the brush track they'd cut in from the dirt road; he could hear the whir of their wings and one of them lit for a moment on his bare arm, its mandibles frothed with a minuscule globular blob of spit. He jerked his arm away, swerving the truck onto the harder surface of the dirt road, and the insect dropped, smearing his flesh with a brown juice. They were a plague: locusts, gypsy moths, hoppers, any of the creatures that consumed insatiably and moved in droves. He began to sweat, feeling the omen implicit in the stain on his skin, and he considered taking the truck, getting as far as he could before ditching it, but he felt the Devil's pull, a kind of magnetic tension, almost a vibration, strung tight in the air. Parson had to stay here, this country, this ground, waiting for Carmody, waiting to see how the Devil moved or talked, in who, in what. He pulled through the camp entrance and wound around over the grass to the back of the big dining hall. Lines of girls fanned off the front porch and the smell of bacon hung in the air, a smell so tantalizing in the building heat that Parson felt himself salivate like a dog. But the directress approached before the truck even fully stopped, raised her bangled arms, and the sudden violent urge to eat, to fill himself with smoked meat as though meat were the salty taste of all the girls he must never touch, dropped completely from him.