No Good Asking

by Fran Kimmel

  His hands escaped and ten fingers flew up at once. Hers did too. He counted the flutters. They were hummingbird wings, same as his.

  He counted numbers on his fingers, bouncing up and down, his feet mushing on the wood, air swishing in his ears. Her body did the same thing, exactly like him.

  He tried something harder, making all the numbers with his fingers, each one flashing behind his eyeball, lit up in red. When he stopped, she started. Her fingers flew so fast, her numbers crammed together.

  Thorn was stretched out in front of her feet. Sammy wanted to keep counting, but she turned her back and he couldn’t see her hands anymore. What was she doing? He leaned forward, and when that didn’t help, he moved his feet two steps out from the hallway. She didn’t turn and look at him. Two more steps. Two more. Five more. Closer. He got right behind her.

  “You can’t come in my room,” Sammy said to her back.

  She didn’t use her words. She was playing with the lamp.

  “I got thirteen soldiers. You can’t have them.”

  She tipped the arm of the lamp, down then up, the ball on the wall a yellow sun bouncing across the sky.

  “Are you gonna sing a song today?”

  She looked at the light, not his face. “Watch the wall,” she said.

  He did. Her hand exploded into the sun like Superman.

  —

  Ellie woke with a start, a fire alarm going off inside her, its unrelenting squeal circling her lungs, pinging through skin and bone. She resisted the urge to jump up, fling off Myrtle’s vineyard square quilt, and dive into the heat.

  She’d been here before. So many times, in fact, she would sometimes dream about having a dream where she woke with a start, only to find the fat round world sleeping, a shushing finger pressed to its lips, as if she needed a reminder to keep the fucking peace.

  Her subconscious liked to play these tricks, a moth’s wings beating against her eyeballs, shaking her up for no reason. She knew from weary practice how to coax it back to its jar, slam the lid. She needed to lie flat and breathe in and out, counting backward through all ten little monkeys until the disturbing seconds between sleep and wake evaporated like smoke. Only then would it be safe to blink into the darkness. Take inventory.

  She remembered Sunday came next. They were all sleeping. She had drifted off in front of the TV last night, but then Eric had squeezed her shoulder and told her to come to bed. They’d been watching the weather report. Snow and more snow. Now she could feel the weight of the white Sunday layers, caked to the shingles, pressing down from the rooftop. Her flannel pajamas had a tear above the knee—wafts of warm, under-the-covers air pushing against her bare skin through a hole as big as a grape. The toes on her left foot felt tingly cold. Eric beside her under the quilt—Walter must have had a quiet night for once—Eric too far to reach, his breathing raspy and solid. If she could just turn to him and stretch her leg along the flannel sheet, her toes would find his calf, hot as the summer sun.

  Instead, she turned away and checked the clock. Seven thirty. She blinked two times to clear her vision and looked again, more alert now. Seven thirty. Morning already? But where was Sammy? He had never slept past seven, not even the morning after they piled into the van and drove out to Boogle Hill and sat without touching on Walter’s filthy horse blanket, fireworks popping like corn in the night sky, all of Neesley crammed into the stands at the baseball diamond, miles away, their cheers as faint as a stereo on low.

  Something was wrong. Sammy should have needed her by now. He should have already climbed out of his bed and padded across the hallway in his Superman pajamas and pushed open their door and poked her side until she opened her eyes and groggily said the morning words, It’s the one and only S-u-u-uperman.

  She heard whispering sounds from beyond her walls, from beyond any corner she could imagine him to be. In that same woolly second, it came back in a whoosh, a tap opened full. This was no ordinary Sunday. There was a girl in the house with green-grey eyes and a patchwork of bruises. She was to be taken away, but not today. Betty Holt would come galloping to the rescue on her white horse, breasts flopping behind a moose or a flamingo knitted across her sweater.

  Then she heard a squeal, almost a high-pitched scream—a sound she recognized but couldn’t quite place. Ellie sprang up in a graceless swoop, flinging the quilt over Eric’s head. Three long strides and she was turning the door handle, running toward the sounds.

  She stopped at the end of the hallway. She stopped breathing too and clamped her hand to her mouth to prevent any sound from leaking out. Her youngest son and the girl were in the far corner of the living room, their backs to her, sitting cross-legged on the floor in their pajamas, so close their knees touched, like ordinary children might do, just a girl and a boy with a fat old dog stretched out in front of them.

  They had turned on the goose-neck lamp, the one over by Myrtle’s mohair chair—Hannah would have done that, Sammy was still too short to reach the lamp switch. It cast a wide shadow against the wall in the gloomy room. Hannah fiddled with her arms. They were stretched out in front of her, hands together, thumbs up, fingers entangled, and then they went still, stuck up in the air like that. Sammy shook his hands like a madman and squealed. Her son was laughing, a real laugh, so foreign a sound in this house that Ellie had to reach far, far back before she understood it.

  There, big as life, thrown against the wall: Hannah had made a dog with her hands, ears perked up inquisitively, mouth gaping, a friendly chomp out of air. Sammy’s squeals became remarkably clear now. Short happy bursts coming from his mouth. Thorn lifted his head and woofed halfheartedly, more a clearing of his throat, looking around to see what the fuss was about, then thunking his head back down with a sigh.

  Hannah’s dog romped along the wall, head up like a coyote in the moon, head down, head all around, sniffing through the tall grass, Ellie’s son gyrating madly on his Superman bum, vibrations shooting across the floor and through the soles of Ellie’s bare feet. Ellie leaned into the wall for support, her fingers clasped white tight in front of her lips.

  Hannah’s voice now, quiet and kind, talking to her son. His crazy out-of-control body becoming motionless.

  Ellie strained to hear the girl. She used just a sprinkling of words. The shadow dog’s name was Chester and he didn’t like being alone and Sammy knew what to do, didn’t he, just like they’d practised. He lifted his arm reverently, a symphony conductor, his fingers a perfect crocodile, jaws opening and closing, as if his hands always did his bidding. He brought the crocodile to meet with the dog on the wall, snouts touching, and they stayed there side by side, getting to know each other, neither the least bit afraid.

  Hannah’s dog turned into an elephant, then a swan, then a long-necked giraffe. And how are you today, Mr. Crocodile? You have such big jaws, Sammy asking for all the animals in the zoo. Wanting to make friends with a dinosaur, a penguin, a mouse.

  Ellie felt a rumpled heat behind her, Eric’s early morning breath on her neck. She reached across her chest and grabbed a handful of Eric’s gnarly bicep, squeezing a warning.

  “What’s up,” he said, too loud.

  She could have smothered him with her fist in his mouth, but it was too late, the moment shattered. Hannah’s animals dropped from the wall like they’d been shot. Her boy turned, a long aaahhhh pouring out of him, and when Hannah stood quickly to face them, her arms now just a pair of straight twigs inside her faded pajamas, so did Sammy. Thorn hauled himself up and sat close to the girl’s hip, tail thumping.

  “I moved the lamp,” Hannah confessed, as if she expected to be punished by the adults looking on from the end of the hall.

  “That’s okay; turn on any light you want,” Eric said, deceptively casual, his body now as taut as Saran Wrap stretched over a bowl.

  He’s rummaging through the evidence, Ellie thought, like he’s at the scene of an accident.
Eleven-year-old girl, five-year-old boy, standing side by side in the cold morning under the light of a goose-necked lamp.

  “Were we too loud?” Hannah wanted to know.

  Sammy now part of a we? Ellie’s throat caught; she might never be able to swallow right again.

  “That’s okay,” Eric was saying. “You’ve been quiet as two little mice.”

  “Quiet as two little mice,” Sammy piped in.

  “Haven’t slept that long in ages,” Eric said. “What have you kids been up to over there?”

  Ellie’s eyes stayed glued to the other side of the room. Her boy, looking so sure of himself, the beginnings of a smile, and then a raucous series of whoops.

  Eric laughed along with him and turned to look at her face. “El?”

  They were all examining her now. Hannah, Sammy, Eric, the dog. She had trouble getting her mouth to work. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “But . . .”

  “There’s nothing wrong.”

  “Oh, El.”

  “The kids were just playing,” she said. “Just let them play.”

  Then she turned on her heel and fled to the bathroom, away from their stares, away from the light of that lamp, pressing her back tight against its locked door, lungs drowning in wet, salty air. It took several minutes before she felt steady enough to step to the sink. What she saw in the mirror scared even her. Her stained mother’s face—like she’d been crying for years.

  By the time she was able to compose herself, Eric had Hannah and Sammy seated at the breakfast table. Sammy was wolfing down his cereal, looking up between shovels at the girl across from him.

  Ellie went to Eric, who was at the sink, changing the faucet filter, something she’d asked him to do weeks ago. He wiped his hands on a tea towel, turning to her.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Much,” Ellie said. That knot in her gut had loosened. She felt hungry. Ravenous even.

  Eric poured her a cup of coffee, smiling ear to ear. “Easier than yesterday’s breakfast,” he whispered, cocking his head toward the kids.

  Ellie kissed him on the cheek and took her coffee to the table. As soon as she sat down, Hannah dropped her eyes. Ellie could imagine what she looked like. Sammy paid her no attention. He was too busy eyeing Hannah, trying to copy the way she tapped her spoon in the cereal milk.

  Ellie studied the girl. She looked less haggard than she had when they got her, although the ridge on her cheekbone had turned a deeper shade of purple.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” Ellie asked.

  “Do what?” Hannah put her spoon beside her bowl.

  “Make animals on the wall,” Ellie said.

  “Animals on the wall,” Sammy repeated, his mouth full of Cheerios.

  “Brownie camp,” Hannah said.

  Ellie felt a ping of gratitude. The girl had been taken to a Brownie camp.

  “I learned some animals by myself. An elephant is easy.” Hannah looked up at Ellie, shaping her finger into a trunk. Sammy tried too, his more like a platypus.

  Eric called over from the sink, “Does anyone want toast? Peanut butter and jelly?”

  Sammy clapped and nodded. “Peanut butter and jelly!” He never wanted toast.

  “I love your shadow puppets,” Ellie told Hannah, leaning in. “Maybe we can do a show later. For Grandpa and Danny. Sammy, you can be the dog.”

  Sammy clapped again. “Chester,” he announced, plucking his word from the air. Chester. A glowy word, rich and smooth, no pointy edges. It gave her courage.

  “We should go to church this morning,” she pronounced loudly, startling herself. Where on earth had that come from? She’d moved so quickly from thinking the thought, to voicing it out loud, she’d created no space in between to swallow the words back down. She couldn’t fathom herself coming up with this notion yesterday. “Why don’t we? All of us. For the Christmas Sunday service.”

  Eric placed Sammy’s plate of gooey toast in front of him and turned to her. “Really? Church? You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Why not,” she said, pushing back the reasons why not. Sammy, Walter, Hannah on display—all the moments that could go sideways. “It will do us good to get out of this house. There will be Christmas music. Sammy loves music, and so does Hannah.” She turned to the girl. “Do you feel up to it, Hannah?”

  Hannah nodded, as if the choice was simple.

  “How about you, Sammy? Do you want to go to church?”

  Her son repeated back her questions, spitting toast crumbs, “How about you, Sammy? Do you want to go to church?”

  Eric smiled. “Let’s call that affirmative.”

  It was settled then. They would go to church, like any other family on a Sunday morning. Ellie left the table before her wits could take charge.

  —

  His dad told him to quit beaking off. We’re doing this for your mom, okay. It’s Christmas.

  But Christmas wasn’t until Wednesday. And they weren’t a churchy family. They hadn’t set foot in a church the whole time they’d lived in Neesley or in any of the other towns before. This Sunday morning exodus was just one more manifestation of his mom’s Perfect Christmas campaign, one which he’d definitely rather skip. But then he remembered that Melissa got hauled to church with her parents every week. He hoped his mom would at least pick the right church—Melissa’s.

  He wore his green shirt and brown pants and a clean pair of socks and slicked his hair back. His mom ran around the house, giving last-minute orders. She was driving him crazy, so he threw on his coat and boots and followed his dad into the cold. He helped brush the snow off the van and scrape the ice off the front windshield.

  They left Thorn in the house, pouting, stretched lengthwise against the front door so they couldn’t sneak by him if they ever decided to come back. Daniel left his phone behind too. His mom checked to be sure.

  His dad drove, obviously. There was no point in asking if he could drive. He would never be allowed again. His dad always got behind the wheel, unless there was a reason he couldn’t, like when he cut a chunk out of his thumb with a fishing knife and wrapped it in the bloody washcloth and his mom sobbed oh Eric, oh Eric three hundred times as she drove to the hospital.

  His grandpa and Sammy got the middle seats. He and Hannah got the back. He showed her how to tilt the seat with the button along the side. She had her hair in a high ponytail with ringlets around her face, and she kept pressing her palm against the curls to check if they were still there.

  His mom had done that. First, she ironed Hannah’s blouse, one of the pile he had pulled from Hannah’s drawer. That shitty night seemed like a thousand years ago and already the details were fuzzy. Like whether a real clock made that horrible bong, bong, bong noise, or if it was only in his head.

  His mom lent Hannah a red scarf with a clip to hold it down at the front. Then she sat Hannah on the stool at the kitchen island, set up a mirror on a stand like at a beauty parlor. Sammy sat beside her with his colouring page and yelled ready or not when the curling iron blinked. Daniel couldn’t believe it. Somehow Sammy figured out that Hannah wouldn’t bite, and now he wouldn’t leave her alone. Tight or loose, his mom had asked about the hair. Hannah picked tight. She eyed the mirror the whole time and fiddled with the scarf’s clip while each strand steamed and bounced.

  Daniel thought she looked cute, like a different girl, but what he liked best was the expression on her face. Their back windows were covered in frost, a map of the world, oceans and mountains, but Hannah leaned forward in her seat belt and peeked through the valley cracks, eyes wide, like she was heading up the big climb on a rollercoaster, waiting for the first drop. They were going to church, not Disneyland, but looking at her now, he almost caught her stomach flips. Except there was Melissa to think about, and that scared him half to death.

  He kept his head down w
hen they passed the tree he’d smashed into with the truck. At the church parking lot, he searched for Melissa’s mother’s car—an ice-silver metallic Subaru Legacy, boxer engine, power everything, and sliding glass sun roof—but there were only Ford trucks and SUVs. He didn’t know what her father drove. He’d asked Melissa once. Big and ugly was all she said.

  They made a production of getting out of the van. Doors banging. Slipping on ice. They took a few steps between cars before his mom stopped and said, “Where’s your cane, Walter?” and his dad had to go back to the van, but he couldn’t figure out which pocket his keys were in, so they stood and stomped and froze. His dad got the door open and came back with the cane, but then his mom said, exasperated now, “Sammy’s got the snow brush with him,” so his dad tugged it out of his hand and patted down his pockets for his keys again, which took forever, while they stood and stomped and froze some more.

  Finally, they filed up the wide concrete block of stairs, going slow, slow for Grandpa, who refused to hang on to the railing. Inside the front doors, people milled about noisily. There were little girls in velvet dresses and boys with bow ties, ladies with poinsettia brooches, and lots of Christmas stuffing—fat feet into heels and fat necks into shirts. The volume dropped the minute they were all through the door. It was as if a force field surrounded them. Everyone parted, in slow motion, making too much room. At first, people just looked curious or surprised until, manners chucked out the window, they full-out gawked at Hannah’s bruised face. He could hear their sharp intake of breath, holding it there inside their lungs; an organ, far off, was the only other sound.

  His shoulders instinctively flexed, making himself big; he moved in front of Hannah. Then his grandpa burst out, “Where’s the voting booth?” and all eyes turned to him instead and everything sped up again.