by Lindy Zart
My mood brightens considerably when the sun and warm June air greet me. I watch tree limbs and leaves move with the force of the wind, hear the chirping of birds, and smell the sweet fragrance of blossoms around me. I smile. Even nature is saying good morning and that today will be a good day, no matter what. I tip my head back at the cloudless sky and close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The sun tries to burn my eyelids and I cover them with sunglasses, striding toward the small garage with chipping white paint and an uneven door. I unchain my orange and cream-colored Huffy from a pole in the cool interior of the building and swing a leg over the bicycle.
It's time to ride.
PRAIRIE DU CHIEN IS THE second oldest city in Wisconsin. Its name is French and means "Prairie of the Dog”. I'm really not sure why it was called that, but I suppose the settlers who deemed it as such had their reasons for it. Maybe they brought a lot of dogs with them and let them run loose? When it was first settled in the late seventeenth century, it was known to be a trading post for fur trades. The city didn't become fully American until after the War of 1812.
The population is presently around six thousand, but the city is constantly expanding and growing as new businesses come in—something that saddens me but is necessary for it to survive. Without change, there is no advancement. The city is also well-known for the Mississippi River that hugs it and the fishing and hunting that comes along with the wooded areas surrounding it.
In 2001, Prairie du Chien gained brief national attention for its first annual New Year's Eve celebration, during which a carp from the Mississippi River was dropped from a crane over the downtown area at midnight. The "Droppin' of the Carp" celebration has been held every New Year's Eve since. I think all of the citizens have been to it at least once. My mother and I haven't missed a single year, no matter how cold it was or how much snow was on the ground at the time. Pain sweeps through me as I wonder if we will have the chance to watch it together this year, so I pedal my feet faster, trying to outrun what I cannot change.
I love this city. I love the large body of water that lines one side of it, the trains that blast through it and startle those unprepared for its booming horn, the beauty in the trees and flowers throughout it, and the history of it. I cut across the street that leads to the Young residence, the wind flitting over me like the brush of a warm hand. I hop off my bicycle and pull it up to the garage, kicking the stand down.
I hear Rivers' raised voice as I enter the house after knocking once on the screen door. It noisily swings shut behind me, effectively cutting him off. He and his mother are standing in the foyer, their stances stiff and the tension in the room overpowering. His head swings toward me, eyes dark with intense dislike. I smile brightly in return until he looks away. Monica looks flustered, her hands outstretched and entreating toward her unreachable son.
“Hello!” I set my tote bag down and walk farther into the room. I pretend I didn't hear Rivers saying he didn't need a babysitter, especially not me, just before I walked inside. I pretend I don't feel their discord in the air like a trap of negativity. I pretend I want to be here and am happy that I get to watch over a spoiled brat who can't even be glad he is taking oxygen into his lungs even now. “All set for the trip?”
Monica's hands drop to her sides. Her hair is pull backed in a messy bun and she is wearing jeans and a thin purple jacket. The expression on her face is a mixture of frustration and sorrow. “Yes. We need to leave in ten minutes in order to make the flight. Thomas is finishing packing.” Her voice is weary.
“Awesome! Just keep us updated on everything.” My voice is falsely bright and grating even to me, but I have to keep upbeat so I don't walk right back out the door.
Monica gives me a strange look I ignore and takes a deep breath. “I'm going to check on Thomas.” Her eyes flicker to Rivers and away as she trudges up the stairs.
His hair is sticking up in black spikes only a restless sleep could create. One hand balances against the wall to relieve pressure on the worst of his two legs, though he is trying to be nonchalant about it. A white tee with the arms cut out frames his muscular upper body and black lounge pants cover his legs. The strength of his arms is evident in the way they bulge and contract as he shifts his stance, the detestation he has for his legs is evident in the way he keeps them hidden. I'm surprised his vanity doesn't insist he wear a mask as well, or at least a baseball cap, to try to cloak the scars of his face.
“I don't need someone watching over me,” he growls, his face forward so that I can see the clenching of his jaw.
“I heard that. Don't worry, I agree. What you really is need a psychiatrist, maybe some meds—no, definitely some meds. But you got me instead.” I raise my hands apologetically. Then I smile sweetly as I say, “I'll take good care of you. Promise.” Well, I'll keep him alive anyway.
His eyes land on me and quickly lose interest in what they see. Nothing new there with Rivers. “You're so weird, Bana.”
I laugh. “You say that like I should be offended. I'd rather be weird than a clone of everyone else.”
It was a jab and he recognized it as such. He doesn't respond, but I notice the stiffening in his perfectly proportioned body. It's still a remarkable creation. His body may be filled with imperfect fissures, but all I see is something made more beautiful by tragedy. Like an ocean formed from a meteor. Something remarkable can always be the result of something devastating, if you choose to find that one positive in a nest of negatives.
And what is your positive? a little voice whispers in my head.
Shut it, I tell myself, not really inclined to examine all my positives and negatives at the moment.
I remove the orange I brought from my tote bag and raise it to my face, inhaling its sweetly citrus scent as I walk from the room. I'll eat it in a cheerier atmosphere. I used to wonder about names. Like, why is an orange called an orange? And why is the color orange called that? Of course I never got any answers, but it didn't stop me from wondering. Why is anything named what it is? When I was nine, I asked my mom why she chose the name she did for me and she said because she thought it sounded pretty.
I looked up the meaning of my name once and I wasn't really impressed. I was either some jezebel who did horrible things to the man who loved her, or I was something gentle. The two definitions completely contradict one another. Out of the two, I prefer the latter, although neither are particularly complimentary. I don't want my name to mean gentle. I want my name to mean something cool, like driven by fire, or something to that effect. Who was that first person, or people, who chose the names to mean what they did and why did they think they were appropriate?
I guess I think a lot about unimportant things.
I just popped the last of the juicy citrus fruit into my mouth when Monica appears in the kitchen. I straighten from the counter as she approaches. Without speaking, she hugs me. Too stunned to pull away, I awkwardly pat her back. She smells like lavender, which makes me think of my mom with all of her flowers, herbs, and vegetables. There is a tremble to her body that causes a pang in me.
Pulling away, she offers a wan smile. “Thank you. I know he's going to be difficult. Just...you can handle him. I know you can. If anything happens, call me, no matter the time. I'll have my cell phone. Maybe...” She hesitates. “Maybe you could try to get him to open up about some things? No one else has been able to, not even me.”
"If you can't get him to respond, why do you think I would be able to?"
She tilts her head as she studies me. "I don't know," she answers slowly. "I just think you might be able to think up some method I haven't been able to. Call it intuition." She smiles, brushing bangs from my eyes. "I'm really grateful to have you here this summer, Delilah."
I move back, shifting my eyes from hers. Those words warm me at the same time they cause me to go cold. Apparently my body is conflicted. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don't know. Even if he worked on walking more, it would help him. Anything. Or talking. You'r
e so easy to talk to. I bet he would talk to you more than he is willing to with anyone else.” She pauses, chagrin flushing her features. “I'm sorry. I'm asking a lot of you and I feel like I'm being extremely demanding.”
“A little bit.” I smile.
“I'll make it up to you,” she promises, squeezing my arm. “I'll be in touch once we're settled in California. There's a credit card in a dish on top of the refrigerator. Use it for whatever you need or want. And thank you. You truly are a blessing.”
I salute her, following her from the room and into the foyer. Rivers and his dad are in the room, the span of it between them. I don't think that's all that stands between them, from what I've seen. I wouldn't call it animosity, but there is certainly discord among them. It's in the way they stand when next to each other, the way they avoid one another's eyes. The way they don't talk to each other unless they have to.
Mr. Young's lips lift and lower in what I'm assuming he thinks is a smile. I give a flash of my own. He looks at his son. “Stay away from the pool while we're gone—since you've apparently forgotten how to swim.”
Rivers' mouth tightens, but he says nothing as he looks down. Two things hit me. The first being that his dad must know his endeavor into the pool yesterday wasn't an accident. A glance at his mom's face shows she believes it as well, though she looks saddened by it instead of revolted like his dad. The second thing is, why would his dad say such a jackass thing to him? He was in a terrible accident while on the river—was that in reference to that and not the pool? My unease where Thomas Young is concerned turns to immense dislike.
The enmity in the room lessens astronomically once they are gone, but it is still here. I exhale slowly and look at him. “I know you don't want me here, but I am. This will go a lot smoother if I don't have to watch you every second of the day.” I pause. “Do I need to be worried about anything?” What I really mean is, is he going to be stupid again and put his life in danger.
His stoic silence is the only response I get, which isn't a response at all, but I think we understand each other. I'll leave him alone if he doesn't give me any reason not to. I decide to ignore Rivers like he normally ignores me and go about my usual stuff.
“Shout if you need me,” is all I say and start up the stairs.
It hasn't escaped me that being a maid for one of the most popular boys in my grade should be beneath me. It really is too. Only I didn't take the job for him, although, in a way, I guess I did. That and my post-summer trip. The reasoning for why I do the things I do is something I cannot fully explain, so most days I try not to. My subconscious knows, and that will have to be enough.
The young man I left below is a mystery. He in no way resembles the laughing, smiling jock from school. All I can associate with the Rivers from school and the Rivers downstairs is the obvious disdain he has for those not as physically and athletically gifted as he—meaning me. Other than my bright, and sometimes clashing, clothes and hair, I am pretty plain in appearance and I didn't play sports in school—I hated them, actually. They are too competitive. People get fanatical about them. Come on, they're games. I mean, playing sports for fun is one thing—that I get—but when people go nuts because you miss a shot or are not perfect in your pitch, well, that is ridiculous.
And why do there have to be winners and losers? Why can't everyone be winners, or at least tied? Why must the game go on until one team outscores the other? Telling someone they have to win is putting a lot of pressure on them, and then when they don't win, they feel bad about themselves. Losing is apparently supposed to make you feel so terrible about yourself that you won't give up until you win. It is an obsession. Anything less than first place isn't acceptable. What does thinking that way do to your self-esteem? I mean, it's good to strive to do well at something and we all need goals, but to think you're worthless because you aren't perfect is wrong, and to teach children to think that way is wrong as well.
I guess it's a good thing I never went out for any sports because it really doesn't make sense to me. I would have spent the whole time trying to get everyone to believe we can all be winners. I can just see myself; a lone figure on my campaign for equality in sports. I imagine I would have been sent to the dugout indefinitely for thinking like that. It probably was never even an issue for Rivers. I've seen him in action. I never understood all the plays that go along with football, but I could see the ease with which he moved, the fluidity of his limbs, the speed he ran with. Watching him was like watching art come to life.
Even I can mourn the loss of his graceful limbs, though I do not share the view that he is less than he used to be.
A small voice asks, What if that was Rivers' life? What if nothing he ever did was good enough? What if winning was the only way he knew how to get approval? I don't think Monica would ever put that kind of pressure on him growing up, but I could so see Thomas doing it. Again, an emotion I'd rather not feel scorches my insides, telling me the detachment I pretend to have toward him is a lie.
I'm wiping the master bedroom windows with a Windex-doused cloth when I hear a crash. I freeze, listening but hearing only the thumping of my heart, and then I scramble into motion. My first thought is that Rivers decided to break our silent agreement and tried to harm himself again. Anger and fear war within me. I sprint down the stairs, stubbing my left big toe in the process, and follow the sound of rushing water. I stop in the doorway of the white and cream bathroom and stare. Rivers is on the floor beside the tub, clad only in red boxer briefs. A mix of pain and shame has captured his features.
I give myself a shake and enter the room, careful to keep my eyes averted from his body as I say, “What exactly were you attempting to do? Take a nap? I suppose the bathroom floor is as good a place as any. The sound of the water is soothing too, if you like that sort of thing.” I lean over him, groping for the knob in the garden tub, and turn the water off while trying not to think about my chest being inappropriately close to his face.
He doesn't answer and I sigh, turning to look at him, struggling to keep my eyes on his and above his neck. My face has to be red because it abruptly feels like it is sunburned. “Well, let's get you up, shall we? Nap time is over.” I don't know why I'm acting like I don't know that he fell. I guess to spare him the embarrassment of me stating the obvious. Although, I don't think he appreciates my attempts, which is glaringly blatant when he talks.
“I can get up on my own,” he snaps as I reach for him, jerking his arm away.
“Yeah?” I step back and put my hands on my hips. “Be my guest.”
Something happens to me as the seconds tick by, turning into minutes as I watch him try again and again to maneuver his body into a standing position. He struggles to get up, but every time either his hand slips or his legs won't cooperate or he loses his balance. Over and over it goes. It isn't pity I feel, although I know he wouldn't want me feeling anything toward him—it's more like respect. He isn't getting anywhere. Sweat lines his face and he's panting, but he won't give up. I wonder how long he'll do this before admitting defeat. I almost think he won't give up until he is on his feet. Then I notice the trickle of blood starting to run down his forehead and I know it's time to end this. He can prove he isn't helpless another day.
I move for him, stating, “You're bleeding.”
“I don't need your help!”
“And I don't need your shit!” He blinks at the heat in my voice. I sit back on my heels and take a ragged breath. “Look, it's obvious you're struggling to get up, and your head is bleeding. You might have reopened a wound. Just let me help you up and look at your head, and then I'll leave you alone again, all right?”
“Fine,” he grinds out.
I put my hands under his armpits and haul him up with difficulty, his hands reaching for the wall behind him to help get him to his feet. He's heavy, especially when most of his weight is leaning on me. It is awkward and takes a prolonged amount of attempts, but between the two of us, we finally get him standing.
; “Did you hit your head when you fell?” When he doesn't answer, I pull back to glare at him.
“I don't know. I guess,” he mumbles.
"How did you fall?"
"Moved too fast, leg spasmed."
He's against the wall, one hand on the top of the toilet, the other on my shoulder. Tired, we momentarily rest this way with my head lowered between us. My muscles are shaking from effort and a sheen of perspiration covers my skin. I wonder if this is going to turn into a routine thing—me, rescuing him. The longer we stand this way, the more I begin to notice things. He smells like sunshine and vanilla, which is sort of different for a guy to smell like, but I like it on him. It reminds me of a beach—sunscreen, the sun, waves. His skin warms my hands where they touch him and I can hear his heart pounding near my ear. When I realize I'm staring at his defined abdomen, I jerk my head up and clip his chin. He curses.
“I'm sorry!” I cry, feeling bad for further injuring him.
“You can let go of me now.” Annoyance forms crinkles in the corners of his eyes. I wonder if creases ever form there anymore from smiling.
I drop my hands and move back. “What were you trying to do?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
My back bristles. “What? That you're rude and belligerent? Yep. That's pretty obvious.” I cross my arms.
“I was trying to take a bath.”
“Do you normally do that on your own?”
“Take a bath? Yeah. I usually manage that on my own. Are you offering to join me?”
I press my lips together as heat whooshes through me. “I meant get it ready on your own. You know, I think I liked it better when you didn't talk to me.”
“I aim to please.”
“Next time you fall, don't call for me,” I declare, stomping out of the room.
“I didn't call for you this time!” he hollers after me.
“Maybe you should have!”
Grumbling to myself as I finish making the upstairs squeaky clean, it occurs to me that I am seriously irritated. That doesn't happen very often. I take slow, deep breaths as I work, finding my happy place once again as I focus on the sun streaming through the windows, the calming colors of gray, cream, white, and pale yellow that make up the upstairs decor, and the lingering scent of lavender. It takes a while, but my heartbeat returns to normal and the glaze of anger melts away.
