(This story was written in September of 2008.)
I don’t know why I got fired, but I did. I worked at a hospital, at the check-in desk. I’m not sure what I did wrong but they told me to leave. So in the middle of the day, I walked home. I hadn’t been outside in the midday sun for so long. It was springtime but warm like the summer. I sweated through my clothes and walked through the hearty heat wondering why I’d been let go. I supposed the fact that I didn’t know was part of the problem. The other staff was always correcting mistakes I hadn’t known I made. The same problems would happen over again. I guess I didn’t consider them mistakes.
I arrived at my house. Small and dark, it’s just big enough for my daughter, Sri, and I. The curtains were closed and the air felt damp like mold. Sri wasn’t here much. I slid down onto the couch, lay, and nuzzled my cheek against the rough fabric. My mind resonated one thought: I’m heartbroken.
Then I heard a noise. Somebody was home. Sri’s truck wasn’t in the driveway; it was a school day. I pulled myself up and wandered towards the shuffling. There was a man, old enough to have gray stringy hair, arranging at least a dozen dried roses in a vase on Sri’s bed stand. I watched until he noticed me and jerked around. He had wrinkles cascading over his thick face. He was wearing frayed jean shorts. He recovered from the start and smiled.
“You must be Sri’s mother,” he said, his voice warm.
“Who are you, my estranged father?” I hulked, trying one of my famous jokes. He thought I was serious. He looked concerned.
“I’m Sri’s lover.”
He said it with eyes thin and concentrated like someone delivering cancerous news. The frankness of the line hit me and I felt waves of fury lurking in my stomach. I could choose not to believe it, but Sri was an openly sexual girl. I’d seen her kissing men who looked to be in their late 20s in the driveway at night. I wanted her to keep coming home to sleep, so I said nothing.
“She’s 16,” I said, “That’s illegal,” I said and he nodded again. “I’m calling the cops.”
“Oh, no…” he groaned. His face had concern splashed across it. “I’ve never hurt her, Maize.” He knew my name which meant Sri had talked about me. My ears burned.
As soon as Sri developed breasts and realized people liked her for it, she’d been straying as far as she could from me. I loved the beautiful young woman she was becoming and began shopping fanatically for brassieres and panties. She appeared to me as the most stunning creature. She was a smart child, a funny child, a kind child. I am aware of the bias I had for her, as she never enchanted other children as she had me. Money from her father, who left when he inherited a lemon grove in Italy, sustained us. I didn’t have to leave her to go to work. Sri and I were best friends.
I lost her fairly easily. She just slipped away without a word. One night, deep into her preteen absence, I heard her coming home and inched out so as not to scare her away. She was gulping water with the throaty noises of a thirsty dog, and I sauntered into the kitchen.
“Sri.” She stopped and put the glass down. The water shined on her upper lip from the moonlight outside. “I miss having you around,” I said. I wanted to woo her, excite her, entrance her but instead I just spoke.
“Mom,” she said. I thought at first that she was mocking my tone. She took a small step towards me and blinked slowly. “I’m…just afraid that…one day the earth…is just going to…tumble out of its orbit,” she explained finally. That’s when I realized she was high. “Like a baby dropping its rattle.” I stared at her until she walked past me to her bedroom and I sank to the kitchen floor, alone and weak.
“Did you take those roses from my garden?” I growled, shaking now. The man indicated no, of course not. I dashed outside to my flowers and flew at the roses, sorting through them, looking for headless stems. Finding none, I turned around, breathless. My skin felt like ash and dust. I turned around to see the man in the doorway, holding out a glass.
“It’s lemonade. I brought it for Sri, but you look like you could use some.”
“No thank you,” I said, beginning to walk past him into the house. Air had begun moving outside. The fragrance of the flowers blew around my face, inside my nostrils. I devoured it.
“Here,” he said and grabbed my hand, leading me to a bench. I accepted his direction and then the lemonade. I was thirsty, but took only a sip. He watched me like an eager child.
“It’s good. Sweet,” I said. He grinned.
“The magical part is I don’t add any sugar.”
I looked around at my flowers. I’d begun gardening a few years ago. There was just a massive field of dirt in our backyard originally. I didn’t have a natural green thumb, but I did alright. The flowers sprouted like walls. They bloomed and blossomed under my watch, during different seasons and times of day. Sri plucked some to tuck in her hair from time to time. I hated seeing the empty stem, the sturdy green stick that ended in nothing.
I fell down on my knees and began picking weeds. After a couple minutes, the man walked off. Gladdened, I started working harder.
Some hours later, the sun was setting and I saw Sri pull up in her turquoise truck. The man was in the passenger seat. I looked away, blushing. Sri was hardly ever home when I was awake. A couple minutes later, the two of them walked through the backdoor and towards me. Like a teenager being confronted I stared at the bushes, my hands working frantically. They stood behind me.
“Maize,” the man said, urging me to turn around. I didn’t.
“Mom,” Sri’s voice was so gentle. It had ripened since I last heard her speak. It poured over me. I got to my feet and then turned around.
First, the man held out a pitcher of that lemonade. “You seemed to like it. I brought you some more.” He sat the container on the bench behind him when I didn’t react.
“And…” he began, nudging Sri.
“And we made you this,” she said. She held out a package wrapped in brown paper.
I unwrapped it delicately. The man seemed to be almost jumping out of his skin while Sri stayed still. Inside was a quilt. I held the top corners and it unfolded, falling to the ground in a terrific tumble. Each square was a different color.
“We sewed it together,” the man said. I looked at Sri. Her cheeks were ripe, like a peach and I wanted so badly to hug her. My body trembled.
“Mom, you look tired. Do you need to go to sleep?” Sri asked. She spoke so slowly, so differently from the playful chipmunk voice of her childhood.
I may have nodded, I’m not sure, but my feet gave out and I fell into the dirt with the quilt in my hands. I raised it up to my face and breathed. It smelled like her. I felt Sri on one side of me. It was paining her, I know, but she placed her arm around my neck and tugged me towards her. She pressed her forehead into my ear. I pulled my face away from the quilt, letting it drape over my legs. Then I noticed that the sun, which was falling behind the horizon, was directly behind that pitcher of lemonade. It shone and glowed so that the whole garden seemed like it was embroidered with gold, held forever in that moment by lemons that were too sweet.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Morgan's Fingers
(This story was written in March of 2008.)
“It was an accident,” Morgan said. Morgan, my stubby-fingered neighbor, was standing beside me and we were both standing before a lake our backyards shared. It was a fake lake. Our fathers got together one summer and decided to build a lake. They lined it with brown tarp so the water would stay in and then threw rocks in for decoration. It was big for being so elementary. I was proud of it. I’d say at school, “I have a lake in my backyard. My dad built it,” and Morgan would say, “My dad helped.”
Morgan‘s fingers on her right hand were halved. They were like that from an accident when we were six. Now, at 14, she was self-conscious and kept her hand hidden at school. Some kids were scared of her, thought it was gross. I wasn’t scared of her fingers and so she wasn’t scared of me when I got angry. That was the deal we had; we’d never be scared of each other.
My dirt bike was in in the middle of the lake, completely submerged, and Morgan was wearing my helmet. Her jeans were drenched and she looked terrified.
Morgan had been my friend since I was a baby. I hadn’t stopped hanging out with her at school even though everyone liked me better than they liked her. I would usually just spend my evenings with Morgan because she had no one else to hang out with. Most warm evenings, like now, in the summer, we would take turns riding my dirt bike. I’d told her she could ride it any time and she wouldn’t even have to ask. I had trusted her.
“I have every right to hate you right now,” I said low, and began walking away. She stayed in the same spot. I turned to look at her. She took the helmet off and threw it into the water, then sprinted away, her legs long and gangly, like an ostrich’s. “You dumb bitch!” I yelled after her, and then grew terrified that my mother, who was fixing dinner in the kitchen, may have heard me swear. I continued on to my house and stepped inside to find my mother calm and domestic. She hadn’t heard a word.
Morgan and I didn’t talk for a week after that. My father fished the dirt bike out of the lake and scolded me. I said nothing, still deciding if I should out Morgan or not. Finally, at dinner, my father brought up replacing it.
“Listen son, I know you like your dirt bike, but if you’re going to be irresponsible, I can’t spend the money repairing it, or even getting you a new one.”
I chewed on my pot roast, face still.
My father stared at me longer, disappointed; I could tell.
Then I burst, knocking my glass over and shouting, “That stubby-fingered bitch drove it in there! She probably couldn’t press the brake because her fingers are too short.”
My mother grew stern immediately even though I had shut up, hurried to my seat, jerked me out of it and led me to my room with my arm. I was much bigger than her but she never acknowledged that. She shut me in there and I heard her step away, and then slumped against my door. I had fits. I knew I had fits. Every time I spoke without thinking, especially times I mentioned Morgan’s fingers, I was in big trouble.
I had nightmares about her right hand. I imagined her punching me but not doing any damage. I’d wake up with guilt like the day it had happened.
Two days later, I was watching TV in a quiet anger. I hadn’t talked to anyone in those two days, my mother and father furiously ignoring me. They hated me when I had my outbursts. I’d punch walls, or throw chairs. My violence was no longer directed at anyone, but I still did damage. My father even discussed sending me off once when I was much younger to a psychiatric ward. When I got angry now, they’d simply not talk to me, not feed me. They’d make dinner for two and I’d eat cereal and potato chips until they rewelcomed me, days later.
Morgan knocked. I knew her knock, the noises her hands made. I opened the door, trying to look pouty. She was standing there with her father, who was holding her shoulder.
“I’m sorry for wrecking your dirt bike. My dad says he‘ll pay for it.” She stopped there, and her father nodded, and then she added, “I‘ll have to work for him forever though to make it up,” in a scruffy voice.
“Do you want to hang out,” I asked, my voice monotone. She nodded and her father murmured a goodbye. He was a quiet man who had desired a son out of Morgan’s conception. He appreciated our friendship in spite of everything.
We went into my room where I set up a video game. The window was open and the wind was meandering in. It was early evening and cooling and my carpet was chilled as I sat on it, silently inviting Morgan to sit next to me. We started up a game, and I lost. Morgan loved playing video games with me. I hated playing with her because she beat me and also because if I ever caught sign of her hands, I had to be reminded that they barely reached the buttons they were supposed to and she often had to strain.
“I’m going to the movies tonight,” she said.
“With who?” I hurled, my voice reaching the high octaves of a surprised question.
“Bradley.”
Bradley was short and chubby with caramel-colored hair that was often spotted with dandruff.
“Your parents are letting you go on a date?”
“Maybe it’s not a date.”
“Sounds like it is to me,” I grunted.
“We’ve been hanging out for a couple weeks. I didn’t tell you ‘cause I know you think he’s ugly. But he’s nice to me. Do you want to come back to my house and help me get ready?”
“Why would I want to do that?” I said, getting steadily more angry. Morgan could tell when I was getting angry. She shrugged, not looking at me. I went with her anyway.
I lay on her bed, watching the TV while she stooped in front of a mirror and smeared make-up on her face. I’d never watched her do this before. I chose not to. Watching the images prance across the screen, I realized that the night my dirt bike was wrecked, she hadn‘t been home. I’d walked over earlier and her father said she was with a friend, at the mall. I thought it was her cousin who she hung out with sometimes. I thought about the fact that I could stop Morgan from going. I could tell her Bradley was a loser and she shouldn’t go, and she wouldn’t. I could scream at her and she wouldn’t act in defiance, but compliance. Morgan trusted me.
I looked over just when she was painting the fingernails on her left hand. She finished the second coat, and then screwed the lid back on. Her fingernail polish would last twice as long as the other girls’. She saw me staring at her in the mirror and smiled.
“Why do you look like you’re about to cry?” she asked.
“Don’t go to the movies with Bradley.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s a loser.”
She watched me, and said nothing. This frightened me beyond belief.
“You can’t go, Morgan!”
“Why?” she screamed back, her face suddenly full of terror. We sat in silence and Morgan’s eyes tinged wet and her face still trembled. She took the cap off her fingernail polish and began another layer.
“I’m sorry,” I said, so hushed that she didn’t hear me and so I said it again. I screamed it this time, so loud that I hoped my mother and father would hear next door, so that they would look up from their dinner they were eating without me because I was so terrible, and forgive me. I wanted Morgan’s father to hear and know that the dirt bike and Morgan was an accident she was just paying me back. It had taken her eight years, but she was paying me back. And then of course, I wanted Morgan to hear and to know. It was just a fit of anger. If tonight, if it were a date, if she were to hold Bradley’s hand, like people our age did, her fingers would not be able to curl up against his and even though it was only five fingers, five tiny fingers really, since she was so young, ever since I felt like I‘d amputated her whole self.
I stood up and I walked back to my house while Morgan kept painting and painting.
“It was an accident,” Morgan said. Morgan, my stubby-fingered neighbor, was standing beside me and we were both standing before a lake our backyards shared. It was a fake lake. Our fathers got together one summer and decided to build a lake. They lined it with brown tarp so the water would stay in and then threw rocks in for decoration. It was big for being so elementary. I was proud of it. I’d say at school, “I have a lake in my backyard. My dad built it,” and Morgan would say, “My dad helped.”
Morgan‘s fingers on her right hand were halved. They were like that from an accident when we were six. Now, at 14, she was self-conscious and kept her hand hidden at school. Some kids were scared of her, thought it was gross. I wasn’t scared of her fingers and so she wasn’t scared of me when I got angry. That was the deal we had; we’d never be scared of each other.
My dirt bike was in in the middle of the lake, completely submerged, and Morgan was wearing my helmet. Her jeans were drenched and she looked terrified.
Morgan had been my friend since I was a baby. I hadn’t stopped hanging out with her at school even though everyone liked me better than they liked her. I would usually just spend my evenings with Morgan because she had no one else to hang out with. Most warm evenings, like now, in the summer, we would take turns riding my dirt bike. I’d told her she could ride it any time and she wouldn’t even have to ask. I had trusted her.
“I have every right to hate you right now,” I said low, and began walking away. She stayed in the same spot. I turned to look at her. She took the helmet off and threw it into the water, then sprinted away, her legs long and gangly, like an ostrich’s. “You dumb bitch!” I yelled after her, and then grew terrified that my mother, who was fixing dinner in the kitchen, may have heard me swear. I continued on to my house and stepped inside to find my mother calm and domestic. She hadn’t heard a word.
Morgan and I didn’t talk for a week after that. My father fished the dirt bike out of the lake and scolded me. I said nothing, still deciding if I should out Morgan or not. Finally, at dinner, my father brought up replacing it.
“Listen son, I know you like your dirt bike, but if you’re going to be irresponsible, I can’t spend the money repairing it, or even getting you a new one.”
I chewed on my pot roast, face still.
My father stared at me longer, disappointed; I could tell.
Then I burst, knocking my glass over and shouting, “That stubby-fingered bitch drove it in there! She probably couldn’t press the brake because her fingers are too short.”
My mother grew stern immediately even though I had shut up, hurried to my seat, jerked me out of it and led me to my room with my arm. I was much bigger than her but she never acknowledged that. She shut me in there and I heard her step away, and then slumped against my door. I had fits. I knew I had fits. Every time I spoke without thinking, especially times I mentioned Morgan’s fingers, I was in big trouble.
I had nightmares about her right hand. I imagined her punching me but not doing any damage. I’d wake up with guilt like the day it had happened.
Two days later, I was watching TV in a quiet anger. I hadn’t talked to anyone in those two days, my mother and father furiously ignoring me. They hated me when I had my outbursts. I’d punch walls, or throw chairs. My violence was no longer directed at anyone, but I still did damage. My father even discussed sending me off once when I was much younger to a psychiatric ward. When I got angry now, they’d simply not talk to me, not feed me. They’d make dinner for two and I’d eat cereal and potato chips until they rewelcomed me, days later.
Morgan knocked. I knew her knock, the noises her hands made. I opened the door, trying to look pouty. She was standing there with her father, who was holding her shoulder.
“I’m sorry for wrecking your dirt bike. My dad says he‘ll pay for it.” She stopped there, and her father nodded, and then she added, “I‘ll have to work for him forever though to make it up,” in a scruffy voice.
“Do you want to hang out,” I asked, my voice monotone. She nodded and her father murmured a goodbye. He was a quiet man who had desired a son out of Morgan’s conception. He appreciated our friendship in spite of everything.
We went into my room where I set up a video game. The window was open and the wind was meandering in. It was early evening and cooling and my carpet was chilled as I sat on it, silently inviting Morgan to sit next to me. We started up a game, and I lost. Morgan loved playing video games with me. I hated playing with her because she beat me and also because if I ever caught sign of her hands, I had to be reminded that they barely reached the buttons they were supposed to and she often had to strain.
“I’m going to the movies tonight,” she said.
“With who?” I hurled, my voice reaching the high octaves of a surprised question.
“Bradley.”
Bradley was short and chubby with caramel-colored hair that was often spotted with dandruff.
“Your parents are letting you go on a date?”
“Maybe it’s not a date.”
“Sounds like it is to me,” I grunted.
“We’ve been hanging out for a couple weeks. I didn’t tell you ‘cause I know you think he’s ugly. But he’s nice to me. Do you want to come back to my house and help me get ready?”
“Why would I want to do that?” I said, getting steadily more angry. Morgan could tell when I was getting angry. She shrugged, not looking at me. I went with her anyway.
I lay on her bed, watching the TV while she stooped in front of a mirror and smeared make-up on her face. I’d never watched her do this before. I chose not to. Watching the images prance across the screen, I realized that the night my dirt bike was wrecked, she hadn‘t been home. I’d walked over earlier and her father said she was with a friend, at the mall. I thought it was her cousin who she hung out with sometimes. I thought about the fact that I could stop Morgan from going. I could tell her Bradley was a loser and she shouldn’t go, and she wouldn’t. I could scream at her and she wouldn’t act in defiance, but compliance. Morgan trusted me.
I looked over just when she was painting the fingernails on her left hand. She finished the second coat, and then screwed the lid back on. Her fingernail polish would last twice as long as the other girls’. She saw me staring at her in the mirror and smiled.
“Why do you look like you’re about to cry?” she asked.
“Don’t go to the movies with Bradley.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s a loser.”
She watched me, and said nothing. This frightened me beyond belief.
“You can’t go, Morgan!”
“Why?” she screamed back, her face suddenly full of terror. We sat in silence and Morgan’s eyes tinged wet and her face still trembled. She took the cap off her fingernail polish and began another layer.
“I’m sorry,” I said, so hushed that she didn’t hear me and so I said it again. I screamed it this time, so loud that I hoped my mother and father would hear next door, so that they would look up from their dinner they were eating without me because I was so terrible, and forgive me. I wanted Morgan’s father to hear and know that the dirt bike and Morgan was an accident she was just paying me back. It had taken her eight years, but she was paying me back. And then of course, I wanted Morgan to hear and to know. It was just a fit of anger. If tonight, if it were a date, if she were to hold Bradley’s hand, like people our age did, her fingers would not be able to curl up against his and even though it was only five fingers, five tiny fingers really, since she was so young, ever since I felt like I‘d amputated her whole self.
I stood up and I walked back to my house while Morgan kept painting and painting.
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