Matylda, Bright and Tender

by Holly M. McGhee

  “I’ll get that,” I said, blocking her. What if she decided it was “passing-on” day, when she went through all my clothes and shoes to see what I’d outgrown? She looked surprised. “It’s just that, well, you know, I’m double digits now, have been for a while,” I said, standing in front of the closet. “And I’ve got to start taking care of my stuff — I mean, I’m in charge of the lizard and everything now — gotta organize my own shoes, too!” I had to keep her out of the closet.

  “Did you buy anything for yourself?” I asked, changing the topic.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I did manage to find a few things.” She put on a pair of red gloves. “Clearance,” she said. “Nobody wants cashmere in the summer, so I pounced.”

  “They’re so soft,” I said, feeling the gloves, feeling her fingers. She took my hands, her red-gloved ones on top of mine. She got quiet.

  “You must miss him,” she said.

  I felt quiet now, too, my throat tightening. What I wanted to say was that I missed him all the time, and that the shirt had made me remember him with happiness, by the stream, and that was nice.

  “A lot,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “I know.” My mom squeezed my hands and let me be alone then. I put the new clothes in my drawers.

  Matylda was watching from one of her palm trees. That’s when I noticed she had no place to go for shade if she didn’t feel like being in one of her privacy logs. “Are those palm trees big enough?” I said. The answer was clear; she didn’t fit under them. “They hardly look like trees,” I said.

  Suppose she just wanted to feel sheltered? She needed more leaves — there was no shade. And her privacy logs were just that, logs she could lie under. She couldn’t even stretch her neck under there. It all seemed inadequate. Only three leaves on each branch of her trees. I used to think her vivarium was nice, with its glass walls and trees and pool and heating pad — with its brown carpet. But it wasn’t good enough for her.

  “Do you like your vivarium?” I said. She didn’t have to answer. Her huddling under that nearly leafless tree was answer enough. I had to do better for her. “I’ll get you a shadier tree,” I said.

  I’m going to Total Pets,” I told Matylda the next morning. “As soon as the store opens,” I said. “I’m going to get you the best tree in the whole store!”

  That’s what Guy would have done. He knew how much I liked spring, with the flowers blooming, every color imaginable and more, and a few years back, he showed up at my house early on a Sunday morning, pulling a wagonful of tulips and daffodils.

  “I got you the best flowers!” he said, grabbing them into his arms. “Look how many!” he said. It turned out he stripped his mom’s garden clean, and my dad’s too, just to bring me all those flowers, all those colors. My parents weren’t pleased, and neither were the Hoses, but they weren’t angry for too long, because it was Guy, and the flowers were for me. It was hard to stay mad at Guy of the Big Bold Heart.

  Today I would wear the clothes my mom bought me and get Matylda a new tree. Today I would leave my sunflower shirt and red capris behind. Today I would put on the new bullfrog shirt and the celery shorts.

  My dad smiled when he saw me. “Nice duds,” he said. He didn’t want to make a big deal, and neither did I.

  “Could I get her a new tree?” I said. “Do you mind? I think she needs more shade.”

  “Don’t mind at all,” said my dad, and he dug around in his worn black wallet. If he were a whistler, he’d have been whistling then. We finished our breakfast, and I headed out, twenty-dollar bill in my pocket.

  When I walked into the store, Mike said, “Hey, you’re back. I like that shirt.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I need a better tree for Matylda’s vivarium. She doesn’t have enough shade.”

  “Shade’s important,” said Mike.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Those palm trees we got — hardly any leaves. What else do you have?”

  “Lots of choices,” he said. “Follow me.” He headed to aisle 3.

  “Look at these,” Mike said when I caught up to him. “Every kind of tree she could possibly want.”

  “I want the best tree you have.”

  “Easy then,” he said. He walked farther down the aisle.

  “These are the rainbow trees,” he said, showing me an assortment of fantastic trees, with dozens of branches and rainbow-colored leaves. “They don’t come like this in nature,” he said, “but geckos love them.” He picked one up. “This is the same tree my bearded dragon has.”

  “You have a bearded dragon?”

  “Yep,” he said. “Monty’s been in our family fourteen years. He was passed down to me by my brother when he went to college.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Fourteen.”

  “With any luck,” Mike said, “he’ll live to be twenty, at least.”

  “What’s your secret?”

  “No secret,” he said. “You’ve got to have proper lighting, of course, heat, variety in the food,” he said. “And this might sound crazy,” he whispered, “but I talk to Monty every day. I just put him on my hand and talk. I think that keeps him going. He’s a listener.”

  “Matylda’s a listener, too,” I said. “I talk to her — maybe too much.”

  “You can never talk to your lizard too much,” Mike said. “Monty’s proof.” He smiled. “Oh, and I let him play, too.”

  “Like with an activity center?” I’d read about those.

  “Informally, yes,” Mike said. “Monty likes all kinds of stuff, but I don’t keep it all in one place. His favorite is a hamster ball.”

  “Like a wheel?”

  “Nope,” said Mike. “Like this.” He took me over to a different aisle and showed me a red glittery ball, with airholes and a removable top. “Monty runs around in this thing all the time. Keeps him in shape. He’s got a lot of energy. And he stays in it when I clean his vivarium.”

  “But it says it’s for mice, rats, and hamsters,” I said, reading the label.

  “Look,” said Mike. “Don’t just stick to the herp department. We’ve got a whole store here.” He motioned to all the back aisles. “Get to know your lizard. Try different stuff.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought of that,” I said. “Thanks. I’m going to take a look around.”

  “Do that,” said Mike.

  There were so many possibilities. Mike was right about not sticking to the herp department — if he hadn’t told me to try different stuff, I never would have considered these things for Matylda. But looking at the Silent Spinner — like a spinning stool at a diner, but with sides — I thought it might be good. There were all kinds of run-around wheels, too. Would Matylda be like Monty, running around in the hamster ball? She didn’t really seem like the exercising type, but then again, you never knew.

  Mike was coming down the aisle with a customer behind him. “Follow me,” I heard him say. “The fish are over here.” He eye-rolled me as he went by. He must get those fish people all day long. I went back to the trees, feeling the money in my pocket.

  So many trees, the stealing girl said. No need to buy one. Pocket the money — you might need more stuff. Savings for her. That’s how you love her. Steal the tree. No one’s around.

  I looked around. I had the aisle to myself.

  Best to have the money — she might need it someday.

  It was true. Matylda should have a financial cushion, just like my dad’s nest egg. Good to plan for her future.

  Put it in your pack — there’s no one around.

  And then I took the tree, the most beautiful rainbow tree, and I put it in my pack.

  Zip it up now, the stealing girl said. You’ve done good work.

  I zipped the pack. I had the tree, and I felt so good, ’cause I had the money, too. I had a nest egg for her!

  He’s still with the fish, the stealing girl said. You can get away, very easy today. Mike’s with the fish — he’ll be there for a while. Straight through the do
or, no one around. Walk slowly, leave the store leave the store leave the store. I left the store, walking slowly, the tree safely in my pack.

  Keep on walking, she’ll love that tree. Don’t look back.

  Mike was right about the tree, and I was so glad I’d taken it. Because as soon as I put it in Matylda’s vivarium, she climbed under it, and she looked like she belonged there. I thought she might be getting ready to shed, but I wasn’t sure. Her yellow skin was the color of an old dandelion, not as bright as usual, but against the rainbow tree, she blended in so perfectly.

  And as I watched her, looking glorious there under the tree I stole for her, I felt I was keeping my promise to Guy, loving her as much as he did. Doing just that. Sussy the Promise Keeper. I had the money, too, just in case she needed something. And I wanted to do more. I wanted her to have everything! I wanted to love her more.

  “Dad,” I yelled. “Come look. Matylda loves her new tree.”

  “It suits her,” my dad said, walking in.

  “Thanks for letting me get it.” Me and my dad hugged, and as he left my room, everything was just as it should be — my new outfit on, my mom at work, my dad writing, and Matylda with a new fancy tree and some just-in-case money. I closed the door, and she raised herself up again, like she had the first time she let me pick her up. We had a secret signal now. So I put my hand around her belly again and I placed her on my palm.

  “I’m glad you like the tree,” I said. She was listening. “I stole that for you. That’s how much I love you. You can count on me.” I paused then. “I’ve got savings for you, too,” I said. “In case of emergency.”

  I think she understood, because Matylda, of the ancient face and starfish toes, began to crawl up my arm. I watched her, afraid to move, and I felt her — tiny, tickly, scratchy steps, going up, one after another after another. Her little toes, grabby on my skin, teeny wondrous grippy feet. Matylda crawled, all the way to the top, and she settled behind my neck, the same way she had settled behind Guy’s when we first brought her home.

  “You walked up my arm,” I whispered, turning my head toward her. She was lodged there against my skin. “Stay there,” I said. And I sat, head straight, a statue — like Guy had done. I wanted her to stay.

  “Do you see us, Guy?” I said. “Guy? Do you see? Is this what you meant?” She tightened her starfish toes on my neck. “See, Guy? Is this how you did it?”

  We sat there together for a while, her soaking in my body heat, feeling close with her under my hair, and then I placed her back under her new tree.

  Her vivarium looked like a luxury hotel, and she seemed pleased to be in it, under the most spectacular tree you could get, knowing she had worms from Total Pets, fresh fig-flavored feeders from our yard, and just-in-case money.

  Why not celebrate new beginnings?” my mom said when she came in the door from work that night.

  “Why not celebrate with sushi?” my dad said, sweeping the takeout bags from her hands. They must have planned it, to celebrate my clothes. I wanted to celebrate too. I joined in.

  “Attention!” I said. They both looked at me. I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Why not?” They were laughing now. We were a silly family of why-notters . . .

  “Howdee-doo, oshinko,” I said, taking the sushi out of the bags. “Howdee-doo, yellow radish roll!” I took out more food. “Hello there, Mr. and Mrs. Tempura,” I said. “Good evening, little shrimp dumplings. Oh, right, excuse me. Good evening, shumai! Bonjour, green dragon. But you, Mr. Uni, Mr. Sea Urchin, I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Pardon,” my mom said. “I beg to differ on Mr. Uni.” She picked up the sea-urchin sushi. “You may look like a spongy, brick-colored blob, Mr. Uni. And you taste like old cheese, but I love you the most!”

  Mom plunked it in her mouth, closed her eyes, and Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm is what I heard.

  My mom hadn’t been this silly in a long time.

  We sat together, me and my parents, under the chandelier, with flowered cloth napkins and chopsticks. “Thanks for getting my favorites,” I said to my mom as she picked up a piece of green-dragon roll. Then, in a low voice, with my hand as a microphone, I asked, “What was the highlight of your day, Ivy?” That made her laugh again, ’cause she used to do it to me, before . . .

  “Well, my dear,” she began, “the highlight of my day is your —”

  “It’s got to be about you,” I said, shaking my head. “Not my outfit.”

  “Right,” she said, “but your outfit is terrific. Someone with excellent taste must have chosen it.”

  “It’s not bad,” I said. “Not bad at all. Now back to you.”

  “Highlights, hmm. Let’s see,” she said. “Groundbreaking day is set for Hudson River Park. You know, that’s our new account. The menu’s been approved — that’s always my biggest challenge, the wine list, appetizers, the gluten-free sides. . . . They wanted to serve Brooklyn Lager, too, even though the park is in Manhattan. I prevailed, though,” she said. “We’re serving a sunset red ale brewed right in New York County.”

  “You didn’t compromise,” said my dad.

  “That’s right,” she said. “You have to pick your battles.”

  “Sussy didn’t, either,” he said. “You should see the tree she brought home for Matylda.”

  “I can’t wait to show you, Mom,” I said. I really couldn’t. “Matylda loves it.”

  “I’ll bet she does,” my mom said. “And how about you, Manny? Did you have a highlight?”

  “I had a good day,” he said. “Thanks to this one right here.” He pointed to me with his glass. “And this one here.” He pointed to my mom. “You ladies,” he said, “you both know what you want.” Glass to me again. “Suss, you wanted shade for your lizard and you brought home the best tree money could buy. And you, Ivy, with that ale. No settling for the Reed women.”

  “We shall not settle,” I said, and I saluted them both. I knew I never would — Matylda’s tree was sparkling in my mind, fluorescent and shiny and shady.

  “Here’s to your book, Manny,” said my mom.

  “No compromising!” he said.

  “Never, ever, ever!” I added, clacking my chopsticks together, laughing. “Prepare for attack, oshinko! I’m coming in.” I put that crunchy, pickly radish roll in my mouth.

  “Green dragon, beware,” my mom said. “I’m going to demolish you!”

  “Dee-dee-dee-dee-do,” said my dad. “Good-bye, uni.” He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.” Uni was one thing they both loved. I was another.

  My mom put her chopsticks in the air. “To new beginnings,” she said. “And new clothes.”

  “To a new season,” said my dad.

  “To bullfrogs,” I said.

  My parents were wishing me well; they were rooting for me. That’s one thing I knew: They were cheering for me. They would vote for me, always. There was something about wearing these clothes; it seemed crazy, but maybe my mom was right, because I felt different in them, like maybe I could go on, like maybe we all could go on.

  “I have a P.S.,” I said.

  “P.S. what?” said my dad.

  I cupped my hands over my mouth again. “P.S., Dad: You gotta stop the red-purple Monopoly thing if you want to play with me again. Okay?”

  “But I haven’t won that way yet,” he said.

  “P.P.S.,” I said. “You never will. Can you hear me?”

  “Well, okay,” he said. “Considering everything, okay.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you berry merry mushroom.” Then we all had a laugh, ’cause that was a line from The Silly Book, one of the books they used to read me all the time. We couldn’t get enough of the stupid, silly talk, and somehow, tonight was like that too, even without Guy.

  After dinner, upstairs, I said to Matylda, “Mike says I can never talk to you too much. You agree?” She nodded. “Want to come out?” I reached in and she crawled straight onto my hand. We lay together on my bed
.

  The lizard manual said that you can watch movies with your gecko to make them comfortable. They might sit on you to take in your warmth — you could bond that way. But it didn’t say anything about lying on your bed together, talking. I guess it was about the same thing.

  “I loved him,” I said, “ever since that day at the bus stop. He always put his heart first, you know?” I stopped and caught my breath. She was listening. “That’s how he died,” I said. Matylda looked at me, her eyes serious.

  “He loved you that way, too,” I said. “And I want to do right by you. It’s not the same anymore.” Matylda crawled up my arm, my shoulder . . .

  “You’re all I’ve got left of him now,” I said. “And I’m all you’ve got left, so we should be a good match, now that you’ll come onto my hand and everything.” She was rubbing her back against my shirt, against the shoulder seam.

  “You like my shirt?” I asked. “Cawoooooohah,” I whispered. She kept rubbing. I reached up to her, patted her, and then her back skin was in my hand, rubbery and soft.

  Matylda had shed on my shoulder.

  I held her skin there, admiring the skeletal white web, perfectly the shape of her spine, the spine of a warrior lizard.

  “You’re not scared anymore, are you?” I asked. “You don’t think I’m the future king, do you?” She didn’t move, tired from her shed. She’d been that dull color for a few days, so I knew this might be coming . . . but her timing, it couldn’t be a coincidence. “You want to start over, too?” I rolled her skin, fresh, between my fingers.

  “You do,” I said. “We’re the same that way.” I laid her skin on my chest, drumming my fingers on it, slowly. Then I picked her up, off my shoulder, her back so bright again, but some old skin still hanging off her face. I left it there. The manual says not to pull off any skin that doesn’t come off by itself. Shedding could take a few days.

  “You’re ready for Halloween,” I said to her, “with that side-flapping mirror skin on your face.” She moved her head from side to side, and the mirror skin flapped a little. “You’ve got a sense of humor, don’t you?” She nodded then, Matylda of the Ancient Face and Side-View Mirror.