Glimpse, page 4
and trees that scratch at the
water.
What’s in the basket?
I ask her, pumping along.
It’s a surprise,
Mari says, pedaling close,
balancing the big picnic basket
on the bar of her bike.
She never hunches
over the way
I would if her bike was
mine.
She drives in the
sitting-straight-up
position,
balancing.
Mom let me
pick out everything
from the store,
Mari says, looking at me.
She feels guilty ’cause
I had to babysit
Mattie all night
while she and Dad
were “out of town.”
She makes her
fingers quotes.
Mattie is four years old
and stick skinny
except for a little
pot belly.
My momma never feels guilty,
I say to my best friend, telling
the truth.
This bike
I ride proves it.
Rickety
old thing
held together by bits
of paint and
leftover ribbons
that Liz and
I tied all over it.
The decorations are from
Before
when me and Lizzie
pretended we were in a
parade.
I start to say,
Can’t be away
from
home
too long.
I start to say,
I promised Liz I’d be back
soon.
But Liz,
I remember,
is not there.
43.
Down
to the river me and
Mari
go, pedaling hard.
I try not to think.
(Lizzie!)
Try not to remember.
(All those baby kittens!)
Try to keep going.
The air is thick and hot,
storm-ready.
I watch as clouds
boil up
in the sky.
Things darken
in the east
where, if we headed that way,
we would run into the
ocean.
What’s in the bag?
I say.
Mari grins at me.
Pads.
Pads?
What kinda pads?
For writing?
Has she
brought something
to help me
get started on my
writing career?
You know,
Mari says,
sanitary pads.
Sanitary napkins.
Kotex.
Tampons.
Mari is loud
—proud.
Twelve and three-quarters,
four months older than me,
and proud of that, too.
What?
My voice swoops into the air
and my foot almost
slips off the pedal,
You mean . . .
She nods.
Yep. I started,
she says.
She grins at me,
triumphant.
I am a woman now.
Her purple hair
waves in the wind
like a flag.
The Womanhood Flag.
I don’t know
what you’re grinning about,
I say,
and smile too.
I don’t want that to ever happen.
I’m staying a girl all my life.
No blood for me,
thank you very much.
(I want to be
just a little girl
though truth be told
I don’t have that.
Not now.)
And like that
I remember.
Momma so mad.
Another baby,
she said.
But not for long,
she said.
I’m getting
rid of this one,
she said.
Like I should have
you two.
Now big drops of rain
fall from the sky.
Mari glances up.
Cross your fingers
it doesn’t rain too hard,
she says.
You know
I can’t get water in my ears.
Mari has tubes.
Not sure why.
But she’s not allowed to get
her ears wet.
If you ask me,
that’s too bad,
seeing we live close to rivers
and the ocean
and, to top it all off,
she has a pool.
It is gonna rain,
I say.
Look at those clouds.
The words come outta
my mouth
and right then
the sky opens up
wide and dumps
buckets of water on us.
We pedal, heads down.
Now I carry the lunch
and her womanhood
bag.
Mari tries
to keep her ears covered,
but one hand won’t
do for both sides of her head.
Cars plow through water,
splashing us.
Little rivers run on the street.
Rain streams down my face.
I am soaked clear through.
We move to the side of the road,
the whole world gray
like Florida becomes
in a good rain.
Mari pulls out a
sanitary napkin.
Put that away,
I say, looking
toward the road.
Somebody might see it.
You want me to go deaf ?
she says.
She plucks the filling from a
couple of pads
and puts a wad in each ear.
I’m ready now, let’s go.
Mari motions with her chin
and I can just see
cotton coming from her head
like her stuffing has come loose.
I laugh all the way to the river.
Not thinking about
Lizzie.
Not remembering
all those baby kittens.
And not one small thought
of the other baby
that might have been
a sister.
44.
This is last summer,
when Liz was happy.
Shh!
Liz whispered to me.
Stop that giggling.
Momma slept downstairs
after a long night.
All I see is your butt,
I said
and Liz laughed.
She turned around
and looked down from the attic
opening at me,
to where I waited below.
Shh,
she said again.
If Momma finds us
doing this there’ll
be no secret clubhouse.
I used the shelf
to push myself through
the tiny crawl space and then,
turning around myself,
gazed at Liz.
She
covered her mouth
hiding a smile.
This,
she said
when she settled,
this is the Chapman Girls’ Hideout.
The attic was fire-hot.
So hot it was hard to breathe.
And dusty, too.
Whew!
Liz looked serious all the sudden.
What will we do here?
I said.
A candle flame flickered.
I could only find a stub
with just a little light left in it.
Liz lit it
before I sat
next to her.
Ah,
said Liz,
like she was wise.
We come here for meetings.
We come here when
things are too tough in the real world.
I looked at her.
We meet here to regain our composure.
Huh?
What’s that mean?
I said.
That means,
she took a big breath
like she felt annoyed at having to
explain,
that means when things are tough,
this is the hideout.
My hands sweat
and my face sweat and
sweat rolled offa me
all over my body.
I thought sure there would be
a wet butt print on the floor
when I got up.
Say the solemn vow after me,
Liz said in a low voice.
Okay.
I answered in the same voice
she used.
When things get tough . . .
When things get tough . . .
When life is rough . . .
When life is rough . . .
The Chapman girls . . .
The Chapman girls . . .
Will take only enough.
Will take only enough.
She stopped like she was thinking of more words
that rhymed with tough. I
tried to help
but my mind drew a blank,
because
I was gonna have heatstroke
maybe.
Our place to hide,
she said,
and sweat drops
splatted
on the wooden floor.
Now Liz wore a little dirt bead
necklace that wasn’t
there when we first climbed into the attic.
Our place to hide,
she said again
and licked her lips.
Our place to hide,
I said.
But I thought,
Next time we’ll bring us something to drink.
Is up here inside.
Is up here inside.
Where no one . . .
Where no one . . .
Not no one . . .
Not no one . . .
Will know our secrets.
I tilted my head and whispered,
That didn’t rhyme.
Say it anyway,
she said.
I want our first Chapman Girls’ Club meeting
finished for the day.
It’s too damn hot
in here.
I gasped.
You said damn.
Liz nodded, her
face pink in the
candlelight.
Say it, quick!
What was it you said?
Will know our secrets.
Oh yeah, will know our secrets.
She leaned over the candle
and blew it out.
Let’s go swimming,
she said.
45.
One night
I hear crying
and it’s not Lizzie
because she is at
the hospital.
My nightmares are back?
I think.
But when I walk
from my room
down the
hall
looking for
the dream,
I find
Momma.
Crying and drinking.
Her mascara has smudged
and her nose is red
and when she talks
her voice
is all run together
and plump
with words.
Oh, Hope,
she says,
I sure do
miss your
daddy.
I sure do.
46.
One Sunday afternoon, two weeks
after the gun, I
sit eating a peanut butter and
guava jelly sandwich
watching wrestling on
TV.
Trying not to think
of Lizzie
so far away in the hospital.
I did think, though.
I thought all about her.
I couldn’t help it.
Even as the wrestlers
holler at each other,
pound on each other,
I think about
my sister.
Momma
waltzes in the living room
smiling
like nothing else matters.
Guess where we’re headed?
she says.
She waves her hands,
flapping like she might fly
if she gets going
fast enough.
I don’t look at her.
My favorite wrestler,
Big King,
is beating the tar outta
a little muscle-y guy called
Lightning Bolt.
Hope?
I grunt. Keep
watching.
Not not thinking.
You listening?
Momma’s hand flapping
stops.
I nod, but I’m not.
Body slam
goes Lightning Bolt
onto the tarp.
His face twists in pain.
Big King throws himself
over Lightning Bolt.
Then,
Psycho Killer Man appears
outta nowhere.
Leaping over the ropes
to save
Lightning Bolt.
Momma
stands in front of the TV
and switches it off with her behind.
Guess where we are
off to right this very minute,
she says again.
Hey now,
I say.
I was watching that.
I have a sadness in my mouth
that never seems to leave.
You got to know,
Momma says,
I don’t give a white rat’s ass
what you were watching.
She’s not happy now.
I am trying to talk to
you,
she says,
and I mean business.
You listening good?
We’re leaving.
Where to?
I say.
I make my eyes big.
I look at Momma
like I care about
what she will say.
To visit
my Lizzie
girl,
she says.
Momma comes closer,
leans on my chair,
putting a hand on
either side of
my knees.
And you can see her too,
she says.
Her smile is back.
The four times before
when Momma visited
my sister
I sat
in the waiting room
while she whispered
to her behind closed
doors.
Really?
I say, not caring for TV
anymore.
Hoping to move the
sadness away.
My heart thumps.
Swear it’s true?
I do swear it,
Momma says with a laugh.
Go do your hair
and change your shirt.
Don’t want us looking
like white trash.
She adjusts her bra strap
with a finger
then
sucks something
outta her teeth.
Hurry it up,
she says.
I’m going,
I say.
My knees have gone weak
(I’m so excited to see Lizzie).
I run to the bedroom.
My whole self goes pink
thinking of the visit.
Wuh-hoo!
I pump a fist
in the air.
Keep it down,
Momma hollers in to me.
She turns on the radio.
Elton John sings.
Momma joins in.
Her voice is
prettier than
summer rain.
It is light and
warm.
And we are going
to see Lizzie.
47.
I want
to tell her all
about Ian St. Clair.
I want to hug her up
close.
I want to say,
Let’s you and me
get outta
here.
But Liz
is blurry-eyed.
And she won’t say
a thing.
Still,
when Momma
leaves the room for a smoke,
my sister
reaches for
my hand,
her fingers weak.
Be careful,
she says.
The words come out
sounding fat
like Liz’s tongue is a sponge
filled with water.
I lean close.
What’s that?
I say.
My eyes fill with tears,
but none spill over.
It has been so long
since I have cried,
my eyes feel like
hot, dry
cement.
Shhh,
Liz says,
shhh.
She gives my hand
a small squeeze,
light,
like she has no
strength.
I clutch her fingers
touch her hair
feel confused
at be careful.
I say,
All right.
I will.
There’s a window
in this room,
small and square.
It’s filled with mesh screen
to keep people out.
(To keep people in?)
Late afternoon sun
touches the carpet.
That blue-green spot is
brighter
than the rest.
Warm-looking.
The air conditioner
turns on
with a low hum.
The curtains give a gentle wave,
like they say
good-bye.
And all the time I watch,
I think,
Be careful.
Be careful.
And I wonder,
of what?
Be careful of what?
Do I tell Momma?
I say to Liz.
Do I let her know
to be careful too?
I talk close to my sister’s face
in a soft voice.
Her breath smells funny.
Do I smell like peanut butter?
Guava jelly?
Liz tries to turn
her head
but she can’t.
It’s like
water.
What’s in the basket?
I ask her, pumping along.
It’s a surprise,
Mari says, pedaling close,
balancing the big picnic basket
on the bar of her bike.
She never hunches
over the way
I would if her bike was
mine.
She drives in the
sitting-straight-up
position,
balancing.
Mom let me
pick out everything
from the store,
Mari says, looking at me.
She feels guilty ’cause
I had to babysit
Mattie all night
while she and Dad
were “out of town.”
She makes her
fingers quotes.
Mattie is four years old
and stick skinny
except for a little
pot belly.
My momma never feels guilty,
I say to my best friend, telling
the truth.
This bike
I ride proves it.
Rickety
old thing
held together by bits
of paint and
leftover ribbons
that Liz and
I tied all over it.
The decorations are from
Before
when me and Lizzie
pretended we were in a
parade.
I start to say,
Can’t be away
from
home
too long.
I start to say,
I promised Liz I’d be back
soon.
But Liz,
I remember,
is not there.
43.
Down
to the river me and
Mari
go, pedaling hard.
I try not to think.
(Lizzie!)
Try not to remember.
(All those baby kittens!)
Try to keep going.
The air is thick and hot,
storm-ready.
I watch as clouds
boil up
in the sky.
Things darken
in the east
where, if we headed that way,
we would run into the
ocean.
What’s in the bag?
I say.
Mari grins at me.
Pads.
Pads?
What kinda pads?
For writing?
Has she
brought something
to help me
get started on my
writing career?
You know,
Mari says,
sanitary pads.
Sanitary napkins.
Kotex.
Tampons.
Mari is loud
—proud.
Twelve and three-quarters,
four months older than me,
and proud of that, too.
What?
My voice swoops into the air
and my foot almost
slips off the pedal,
You mean . . .
She nods.
Yep. I started,
she says.
She grins at me,
triumphant.
I am a woman now.
Her purple hair
waves in the wind
like a flag.
The Womanhood Flag.
I don’t know
what you’re grinning about,
I say,
and smile too.
I don’t want that to ever happen.
I’m staying a girl all my life.
No blood for me,
thank you very much.
(I want to be
just a little girl
though truth be told
I don’t have that.
Not now.)
And like that
I remember.
Momma so mad.
Another baby,
she said.
But not for long,
she said.
I’m getting
rid of this one,
she said.
Like I should have
you two.
Now big drops of rain
fall from the sky.
Mari glances up.
Cross your fingers
it doesn’t rain too hard,
she says.
You know
I can’t get water in my ears.
Mari has tubes.
Not sure why.
But she’s not allowed to get
her ears wet.
If you ask me,
that’s too bad,
seeing we live close to rivers
and the ocean
and, to top it all off,
she has a pool.
It is gonna rain,
I say.
Look at those clouds.
The words come outta
my mouth
and right then
the sky opens up
wide and dumps
buckets of water on us.
We pedal, heads down.
Now I carry the lunch
and her womanhood
bag.
Mari tries
to keep her ears covered,
but one hand won’t
do for both sides of her head.
Cars plow through water,
splashing us.
Little rivers run on the street.
Rain streams down my face.
I am soaked clear through.
We move to the side of the road,
the whole world gray
like Florida becomes
in a good rain.
Mari pulls out a
sanitary napkin.
Put that away,
I say, looking
toward the road.
Somebody might see it.
You want me to go deaf ?
she says.
She plucks the filling from a
couple of pads
and puts a wad in each ear.
I’m ready now, let’s go.
Mari motions with her chin
and I can just see
cotton coming from her head
like her stuffing has come loose.
I laugh all the way to the river.
Not thinking about
Lizzie.
Not remembering
all those baby kittens.
And not one small thought
of the other baby
that might have been
a sister.
44.
This is last summer,
when Liz was happy.
Shh!
Liz whispered to me.
Stop that giggling.
Momma slept downstairs
after a long night.
All I see is your butt,
I said
and Liz laughed.
She turned around
and looked down from the attic
opening at me,
to where I waited below.
Shh,
she said again.
If Momma finds us
doing this there’ll
be no secret clubhouse.
I used the shelf
to push myself through
the tiny crawl space and then,
turning around myself,
gazed at Liz.
She
covered her mouth
hiding a smile.
This,
she said
when she settled,
this is the Chapman Girls’ Hideout.
The attic was fire-hot.
So hot it was hard to breathe.
And dusty, too.
Whew!
Liz looked serious all the sudden.
What will we do here?
I said.
A candle flame flickered.
I could only find a stub
with just a little light left in it.
Liz lit it
before I sat
next to her.
Ah,
said Liz,
like she was wise.
We come here for meetings.
We come here when
things are too tough in the real world.
I looked at her.
We meet here to regain our composure.
Huh?
What’s that mean?
I said.
That means,
she took a big breath
like she felt annoyed at having to
explain,
that means when things are tough,
this is the hideout.
My hands sweat
and my face sweat and
sweat rolled offa me
all over my body.
I thought sure there would be
a wet butt print on the floor
when I got up.
Say the solemn vow after me,
Liz said in a low voice.
Okay.
I answered in the same voice
she used.
When things get tough . . .
When things get tough . . .
When life is rough . . .
When life is rough . . .
The Chapman girls . . .
The Chapman girls . . .
Will take only enough.
Will take only enough.
She stopped like she was thinking of more words
that rhymed with tough. I
tried to help
but my mind drew a blank,
because
I was gonna have heatstroke
maybe.
Our place to hide,
she said,
and sweat drops
splatted
on the wooden floor.
Now Liz wore a little dirt bead
necklace that wasn’t
there when we first climbed into the attic.
Our place to hide,
she said again
and licked her lips.
Our place to hide,
I said.
But I thought,
Next time we’ll bring us something to drink.
Is up here inside.
Is up here inside.
Where no one . . .
Where no one . . .
Not no one . . .
Not no one . . .
Will know our secrets.
I tilted my head and whispered,
That didn’t rhyme.
Say it anyway,
she said.
I want our first Chapman Girls’ Club meeting
finished for the day.
It’s too damn hot
in here.
I gasped.
You said damn.
Liz nodded, her
face pink in the
candlelight.
Say it, quick!
What was it you said?
Will know our secrets.
Oh yeah, will know our secrets.
She leaned over the candle
and blew it out.
Let’s go swimming,
she said.
45.
One night
I hear crying
and it’s not Lizzie
because she is at
the hospital.
My nightmares are back?
I think.
But when I walk
from my room
down the
hall
looking for
the dream,
I find
Momma.
Crying and drinking.
Her mascara has smudged
and her nose is red
and when she talks
her voice
is all run together
and plump
with words.
Oh, Hope,
she says,
I sure do
miss your
daddy.
I sure do.
46.
One Sunday afternoon, two weeks
after the gun, I
sit eating a peanut butter and
guava jelly sandwich
watching wrestling on
TV.
Trying not to think
of Lizzie
so far away in the hospital.
I did think, though.
I thought all about her.
I couldn’t help it.
Even as the wrestlers
holler at each other,
pound on each other,
I think about
my sister.
Momma
waltzes in the living room
smiling
like nothing else matters.
Guess where we’re headed?
she says.
She waves her hands,
flapping like she might fly
if she gets going
fast enough.
I don’t look at her.
My favorite wrestler,
Big King,
is beating the tar outta
a little muscle-y guy called
Lightning Bolt.
Hope?
I grunt. Keep
watching.
Not not thinking.
You listening?
Momma’s hand flapping
stops.
I nod, but I’m not.
Body slam
goes Lightning Bolt
onto the tarp.
His face twists in pain.
Big King throws himself
over Lightning Bolt.
Then,
Psycho Killer Man appears
outta nowhere.
Leaping over the ropes
to save
Lightning Bolt.
Momma
stands in front of the TV
and switches it off with her behind.
Guess where we are
off to right this very minute,
she says again.
Hey now,
I say.
I was watching that.
I have a sadness in my mouth
that never seems to leave.
You got to know,
Momma says,
I don’t give a white rat’s ass
what you were watching.
She’s not happy now.
I am trying to talk to
you,
she says,
and I mean business.
You listening good?
We’re leaving.
Where to?
I say.
I make my eyes big.
I look at Momma
like I care about
what she will say.
To visit
my Lizzie
girl,
she says.
Momma comes closer,
leans on my chair,
putting a hand on
either side of
my knees.
And you can see her too,
she says.
Her smile is back.
The four times before
when Momma visited
my sister
I sat
in the waiting room
while she whispered
to her behind closed
doors.
Really?
I say, not caring for TV
anymore.
Hoping to move the
sadness away.
My heart thumps.
Swear it’s true?
I do swear it,
Momma says with a laugh.
Go do your hair
and change your shirt.
Don’t want us looking
like white trash.
She adjusts her bra strap
with a finger
then
sucks something
outta her teeth.
Hurry it up,
she says.
I’m going,
I say.
My knees have gone weak
(I’m so excited to see Lizzie).
I run to the bedroom.
My whole self goes pink
thinking of the visit.
Wuh-hoo!
I pump a fist
in the air.
Keep it down,
Momma hollers in to me.
She turns on the radio.
Elton John sings.
Momma joins in.
Her voice is
prettier than
summer rain.
It is light and
warm.
And we are going
to see Lizzie.
47.
I want
to tell her all
about Ian St. Clair.
I want to hug her up
close.
I want to say,
Let’s you and me
get outta
here.
But Liz
is blurry-eyed.
And she won’t say
a thing.
Still,
when Momma
leaves the room for a smoke,
my sister
reaches for
my hand,
her fingers weak.
Be careful,
she says.
The words come out
sounding fat
like Liz’s tongue is a sponge
filled with water.
I lean close.
What’s that?
I say.
My eyes fill with tears,
but none spill over.
It has been so long
since I have cried,
my eyes feel like
hot, dry
cement.
Shhh,
Liz says,
shhh.
She gives my hand
a small squeeze,
light,
like she has no
strength.
I clutch her fingers
touch her hair
feel confused
at be careful.
I say,
All right.
I will.
There’s a window
in this room,
small and square.
It’s filled with mesh screen
to keep people out.
(To keep people in?)
Late afternoon sun
touches the carpet.
That blue-green spot is
brighter
than the rest.
Warm-looking.
The air conditioner
turns on
with a low hum.
The curtains give a gentle wave,
like they say
good-bye.
And all the time I watch,
I think,
Be careful.
Be careful.
And I wonder,
of what?
Be careful of what?
Do I tell Momma?
I say to Liz.
Do I let her know
to be careful too?
I talk close to my sister’s face
in a soft voice.
Her breath smells funny.
Do I smell like peanut butter?
Guava jelly?
Liz tries to turn
her head
but she can’t.
It’s like
