The house was silent except for the sound of a goldfish, rising to the top of its bowl, gasping at the air. I found that rhythmic glug-glug soothing, and I would study the orange fish as it fought to endure in the cloudy water. Its swim bladder was infected, or deflated, and even though it tried to swim upright, it was often sideways or upside down. I could not grasp that instinct. To keep fighting. In those conditions, I would force my fins to stop. Sink to the bottom and get on with it.
I was reading about the use of falcons as small-game hunters when I heard a noise from downstairs. A drawn-out creak from the screen door. The knob clicking, the squeak of an adult shoe on the rubber mat.
I closed the book and placed it on the floor. I slowed my breathing so that I would hear everything; slowed my heartbeat so I could think.
Sounds of careful footsteps next. Moving around. Glass clinking.
On all fours, I crawled across the floor, fingers in the navy shag, and slipped my head out of my bedroom door. Someone was rummaging through the kitchen. I could see no one, with the exception of my dead-to-the-world mother on the couch. I stayed calm. Tried not to allow the excitement to take hold, as though my insides were licking a 9-volt.
Crunching, then. Someone was eating from the bowls of food remaining on the kitchen counter. Then I heard an utterance, a girlish squeal. “Fffff-uh-uh-uck!”
I recognized the voice. What a letdown. My aunt. Mother’s stupid sister. She stepped into the doorway, her hand to her mouth. When she drew it away, there was blood on her palm. “Fucking bitch whore,” she mumbled. Her phrase was grammatically incorrect; two nouns butted against each other. She yanked out her bottom lip, stuck out her chin, and glared downwards in a most unflattering lizard-like expression. Trying to see the injury.
On wobbly heels, she crept past my mother, paused, then leaned toward her, tapped her on the forehead with a painted nail. My mother did not move. Then my aunt went to the side table. Her hair was thin, dyed black, but from my vantage point, her scalp had a purplish tint. She reached into the basket of sympathy cards, picked up the first one on the pile. I shook my head, impressed by the stealth of her movements. Only a second or two for each envelope, picking it up, slipping her two fingers into the torn opening, extracting the small amounts of money and stashing it down the front of her polyester blouse. Then she reorganized the empty cards neatly in the basket. She also straightened the telephone book, and plucked up several fallen petals, poked them down into the vase of dying flowers. She leaned her head, left, right, left, and made a self-satisfied clicking sound.
When she returned the next day, she brought me a small parcel wrapped in pale blue tissue paper. Perhaps she experienced some semblance of guilt, or perhaps she saw me spying on her, and it was a keep-your-gob-shut present. I opened it to find a rectangular prism made of glass, a chafer beetle in the centre. Bringing it to my eye, I noticed six segmented legs, a pair of tiny eyes, a perfect turquoise shell.
“Considerate of you.”
“Thought you’d appreciate it,” she said. “Something special for you before the baby arrives. It’ll suck up the attention, you know.” What attention? And from whom? “Besides,” she continued, “you like weird shit.”
A dead bug. “I do.” I stared at my aunt. “Was it alive when they poured glass over it?”
“Alive?”
“Or did they euthanize it first?” Turning the prism over in my hand. “I see no damage to the specimen.”
“Youth-eyes?”
“Kill it.”
“Oh.” My aunt’s eyebrows danced. She found me entertaining, but did not laugh. “Well, it’s dead now.” She stared back at me. “They are methodical little buggers. Beetles are. Did you know that?”
“Yes. Of course I do.”
“Well, Kiddle.” She pinched my nose, a reek of cheap perfume on her fingers. I flicked my head away. “They are, they are. Just like you.”
Though I did value the effort, there was no need for a gift. I would never have exposed her. Knowing she had stolen was reward enough. Any time it suited me, I could lock eyes with my aunt, even at inconvenient moments, and she would be forced to stop and engage. I would wait until her fragility fluttered up, and she could not sustain my gaze.
The iridescent beetle was the first of many insects. That memory makes me feel a swinging happiness.
[6]
Warren took two steps toward the window. Tilted his head. Squinted. Reached his fingers up, tapped his lips. One, two, three, four.
The backyard was brighter now. Even through the light snow, he recognized the unnaturalness of her position. Her head lolled forward, her arms straight, dangling in front of her body as though she were an abandoned puppet. He took a step to the side, tilted his head the other direction, changing his perspective, and that was when he saw the rope. It had been hidden by the darkness of the tree trunk, the morning shadows. The rope was wrapped around her neck. She was not standing there, as he had thought. Amanda Fuller was hanging.
He glanced at his feet. Sneakers still on, he hauled open the back door, ran across the yard toward her. Stopped halfway. He could barely look, her hat askew, face and hands deep purple, tips of her toes grazing the ground, mittens fallen near her feet. Something was jutting from her mouth. Paper or cloth, he could not tell.
Warren tried to move his legs, tried to edge closer, but his muscles refused. Closing his eyes, he imagined his father was there, and he reached out his hands, groping only air. “Come on,” he said through grinding teeth. “Keep walking. You’re not eleven years old anymore.” But he could not. Was incapable of going toward the body, wrapping his hands around the legs, lifting, trying to find ways to bring the girl down. Instead he focused on the branch of the tree, his mind assessing the mechanics. Calculating the angles of the ropes, determining how the pulley system would divide her estimated weight. A reduction in the necessary force. It was all so familiar to him. And comforting. Why did his mind do that? Making calculations, focusing on the elements of the system. He was a coward. That was why. No less a coward than when he was a boy.
“It’s going to be okay,” he breathed, “I’ll get help,” and his feet scraped a path backward, seventeen steps, into his house.
“There’s a girl,” he whispered into the receiver.
“A girl, sir?”
“I think she’s hurt. Injured.”
“Are you with her now, sir?”
“No, no. She’s in my backyard.”
“Is she conscious, sir? Breathing?”
“I don’t know.” His voice cracked.
“Your name?”
“Warren Botts.”
There was a pause on the line, then, “I’ve dispatched an ambulance. It should arrive in about seven minutes.”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
“Can you explain what’s happened, sir?”
“There’s been an accident.” He spoke slowly, while the operator rolled through her questions.
“What sort of accident?”
Warren swallowed. His heart was slamming against his chest, threatening to stop. “Up. Tree.” Words broken, garbled. “Sh-sh-she’s ha-ha-ang-ing. Tangled. Up rope.”
“Mr. Botts. I’m having difficulty understanding you. You need to calm down. Is she hanging? Mr. Botts?”
He could not respond. He tried to think of Nora. He tried to count, a flurry of numbers bolting about, but he was stuck at twelve.
“What’s after twelve?”
“Mr. Botts?”
“I can’t remember. I can’t remember.”
“Mr. Botts. You need to listen carefully. You must get her down and begin CPR. Immediately.”
How could he tell the operator that she had been there for over an hour? That he saw her in his backyard, but ignored her presence. Pretended not to see her, pretended she was perfectly fine, and instea
d he went out jogging. Thinking about himself, his life, his girlfriend with the soft brown eyes. All while Amanda was dying. His delusions made him retch.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice high and tight.
“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to.”
“Mr. Botts.”
“I have to go. I can’t. I’m sorry. I need to look after. My fish.”
“Please stay on the li —” but Warren gently slid the receiver into its cradle.
In a shaky daze, he went toward his tanks. One after the other, he selected the correct type of food, lifted each lid, pinched flakes with his tweezers, stuck pellets to his fingertips. Let the food drift down in the current. Tiny fish darted up or sideways or down. Some nipped each other or stole the food straight from a tankmate’s mouth. The plecos ignored the chaos, kept their flared lips suctioned to the glass walls.
Warren did not glance into his backyard.
Once his fish were fed, he went to the front of his rented home, and stood before the couch. Bay window behind it, he could see the road, lined with evenly spaced oak trees, silent. All of the garage doors were down, single eyes closed. Snow snaked along the pavement. Across the street, a white plastic bag had snagged in some branches. The wind cut through it, shredding it, but still not setting it free. At the sight, Warren sat down in the middle of the room and chewed his nails.
He tried to count everything he needed to do. His lesson plans were ready. He could not see Stephen, but there was water in his dish. And his fish were fed. He would not have to worry about them until that evening. Both hands moved through the shag, separating a square inch of carpeting. Moving twists of yarn between his fingers, he kept track of each one, estimated, and then closed his eyes as he tried to determine the total number of strands that covered the floor of his little bungalow.
[7]
My mother gave birth to a girl six weeks after my father died. It arrived earlier than expected, and I tried to ignore its presence as much as possible. Not that difficult, as it rarely left its crib. All it did was sleep. And eat. And gag on a bottle. It was skinny and covered in weird blond fur and smelled completely disgusting. The neck of its sleeper was always damp, full of yellow creamy blotches. It scratched at its face with its sharp nails, making it look even worse than it already did.
“Shouldn’t someone cut those things?” I asked. My aunt laughed, then appraised her own lengthy claws, said, “Just as well she get used to them.”
Several weeks after it was born, we were in the school gymnasium for a Christmas concert. My mother, aunt, the thing, and me. My mother, in a moment of strangeness, thought it was a good idea to attend, even though I had refused to participate. Who would want to sing and hold hands with those dirty kids? I was crowded by adults, but could still see a trail of kindergartners gliding down the aisle. They were dressed in puckered white bedsheets, a trim of blood red ribbon around their necks. I could not see their feet, and they appeared be floating, moving like ghosts toward the front of the gym. They were singing in high-pitched voices, something festive and untroubled, and it seeped into my head. My mind was straining, either toward something or away, I did not know. I felt sick. Why are they so happy? Why are they so free? Most likely my agitation was not connected to the voices at all. It was the result of my damp pants, or my winter coat filled with matted feathers offering no warmth.
When my mother handed me the bundle, I began to sweat. It was evident the thing was sweating, too, wearing my old blue snowsuit, an emblem of an orange dog sewn on the arm. On top of that, it was swaddled in a nubby blanket, and its face was pink, greasy-looking, lips open and mewling.
The lights dimmed, all attention turned to the wooden steps at the front of the gym. In my arms, the creature squirmed and made annoying kitten sounds. I bounced the small body with some force, but the snuffling continued. It needed to stop. I glanced up at my mother, but her head appeared miles away from me. There was no way to reach her ears, to tell her I needed help. I turned to my aunt. She was fanning herself with bent fingers, then touching the edges of her low-cut dress.
It made me angry.
I do not know why it occurred to me. Why I chose to do what I did next. So smooth, so natural. My hand crept over the blanket and came to rest just on its mouth. Slightest shift, and my hand moved up over the nub of its nose. Puffs of warm air moved through my mittens, steam between my fingers. I held my hand there, just the weight of my arm, my shoulder relaxed, limp, nothing more. I did not push. No, I did not push. It knocked its head back and forth for only a moment, but I did not lift my hand. And then its queer blue eyes locked on mine. There was no sign of fear in its watery gaze. In the shadow of the pew, I glared and glared, excited, until those eyes rolled upwards, and the lids came down. For reasons unknown, it trusted me.
Part of me had wanted it to scream so we could leave the oven of the school. Leave the trail of odd floating children who were humming and swaying side to side, making me feel queasy inside my chest. Part of me wanted the thing in my arms to simply vanish, no longer exist. To pass the time, I played around with this notion in my head. What if it were gone? What if the weight of my hand had pushed it into a really, really long sleep? It lay still and heavy, a brick in my arms, and I left the question hanging in the air for the remainder of the concert. The thought numbed my mind, but the beat of my heart remained steady.
My mother took forever to leave the school. People kept stopping her, asking how she was managing with her undersized offspring and dead husband. I could see my aunt chittering non-stop, talking to friendly husbands, turning her back to the scowling wives.
We walked home in the darkness, snow drifting down, brushing against my ears. After some mild insistence, I was permitted to hold the thing the entire way. I had wanted to grip the feeling, and wait until we were home. In case. I remember the rubber boots I was wearing. No longer could I squeeze my feet into the winter boots I had worn last year, and the rubber would have to do. “You’re lucky you got that,” my mother had said, even though I had not complained. On the outside, they looked perfect. Shiny black, the lining intact, the red label still perfectly affixed to the upper front. But no one knew of the hidden slash near the heel after I tripped on a torn piece of metal in our backyard. No one understood how that cut opened wide whenever I stepped in slush.
My baby sister grew and changed, and in weeks had transformed from wrinkled fuzzy alien to tiny human. As my mother kept her sequestered in a sour crib most of the time, I felt compelled to touch her. To interact. While she was sleeping, I would often place both hands on the sides of her pink skull and squeeze. Within my palms, I could feel slight movement in her bones. I imagined how one thin plate was still able to slide over another. Baby plate tectonics. Sometimes I would lean over her crib and press on the soft spot on top of her head. Her pulsing fontanelle. What an asinine word. It sounds more like a mild cheese than an area not yet ossified. When I pushed, her eyes would pop open, and then she would drift away. Eyes pop. Drifting. It was a fun game to play. Not just controlling that super-surprise expression, but knowing if I pushed hard enough, I could damage her. I could puncture her skin, and my knuckles would drive into the fatty tissue of her brain. But I resisted the temptation. After lengthy contemplation, I decided I wanted to see what would happen when she grew up.
I acknowledge, though, that as the months passed, the little goblin grew on me. It was clear that ball of dimples and rolls adored me (as she should). Once she could focus, her eyes followed my every moment, and soon she made efforts to tumble in my direction. Throwing her body this way and that. In desperation. Who could blame her? She crawled late, at fifteen months, but then moved toward me with lightning speed. I liked to watch her. She wriggled so quickly on the filthy carpet, she appeared to bounce. Like a bug. The only time that baby ever cried was when I left the room. She was a loyal little creature, and for the first time in my life, I was truly revered. Sh
e saw me for who I was, and loved me anyway.
The thought made me calm and uneasy at the same time. Feelings are sickly, unreliable, and I cannot help but notice the smaller word hiding inside. E-E-L. A slithering petulance that eases into cracks, disguising its narrow body against mossy rocks. When I was two, my aunt took me for a picnic, and I swam in a place not much more than a mucky hole. Before I dipped my toes in the water, the bitch snickered, showed her wine-stained teeth, and said, “Watch out for eels, Kiddle. Those water snakes can wrap around your ankles. Pull. You. Down.”
Emotions are like that. Ensnaring, submerging, cutting off the air to rational thought. Feelings are a reaction, a waste of precious neurochemicals. Dopamine, norepinephrine. Some other stuff. But even I cannot deny that so much of our existence circles around to them. When I looked at my sister and had that faintest sense of softness, of belonging, I knew I was not completely immune.
I called her Button. A stupid name, I admit, but it originated at a party. It is not important whose birthday it was, or why I was forced to attend, but the backyard was full of sunshine, shrill noise, and the reek of human frenzy. Clusters of over-inflated balloons hung from leafy branches, and I stabbed as many as I could.
I would never have encouraged my sister to play mindless garbage, but I had been trying to instill the concept of object permanence. She was four, and should have learned it already. She could not grasp that when she shut her eyes, people could still see her, or that when the fridge door closed, the oranges were still there. So when the game Button, Button started, I pushed the little hob forward, made her clamp her hands together, and stood behind her in the circle.
“Button, button, who got that button?” There was a tall white male with a mouse brown moustache, dancing around the circle like a total idiot. He slipped his germy mitts inside the cupped hands of every child. Including my sister’s. Once the deposit ritual was performed, the birthday kid began the guessing, and as each name was called, the small loser opened his or her hands to display empty palms, then took a turn.
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