She wakes in the morning after
one of those visiting nights. Slipping down the stairs and through the
silent kitchen, grabbing a box of matches as she goes, she opens the
back door slowly trying to avoid the creaks from squeaking hinges.
Escaping before her mother can brush, braid, tie or scold, she skips
barefoot across the cobbles of the kitchen garden and through the rusty
gate; her burnished golden hair streams behind her in tangled strands.
A lightweight cotton batiste gown skims her bare ankles; the damp green
grass of the manicured lawn tickles her toes.
Turning at the edge of the lawn to look back through the silken strands
of her blonde hair at the house looming large in the early morning
light, she expects pursuit but a calmness in the landscape breathes of
safety. Her escape is successful; no one follows.
A breeze ruffles the longer weeds of the orchard as she meanders
through. The honeyed scents of late September are strong here. Trees
creak with apples, fallen apples red on the grass beneath, the heavy
sweet smell of them rotting on the ground. The earthy manure smell will
strengthen as the day's heat increases.
Reaching the stand of whip thin alders near the creek bank, she finds
entry to the arboreal sanctuary she has created, the sky above a deep,
deep painful blue, the wind scattering the red and yellow leaves in a
whirlwind of confetti. The days are growing colder; she will have to
bring some quilts to keep out chill.
The sun, low in the sky, burns gold among the leaves to warm the damp
earth; she sits taking the first easy breath she's had since dawn. She
whispers to herself, "All in all is all we are. But what am I?" She
hums the tune brokenly, singing snatches of the words. Silently,
slowly, tears trickle down her cheeks. Another song comes out in little
chokes and gasps-"What is wrong with me, what is what I need, what do I
think I think. . ."
She thinks about the visiting nights. He comes more often now. At
first, it was only once in awhile, like when he'd get drunk and come
singing up the stairs. He'd sit on the edge of her bed reciting Dr.
Seuss, getting all the bits and pieces mixed up, touching her cheek,
breathing his boozy breath all over her.
Then he started coming every couple of days or so. Not drunk these
times, he touched her in places where it made her feel funny. He still
recited Dr. Seuss like that made it all right or something. Now he
comes every night. He's addicted and he needs his fix. He threatens to
hurt her if she tells.
She pretends that she is somewhere else, someone else. She doesn't know
where she fits. Maybe this is all the plan. Maybe it's time to say
goodbye.
Closing her eyes, wiping traces of tears across her cheeks, she
sniffles and reaches for the makeshift shelf she's built to choose a
book from her collection. Randomly turning dog-eared pages, sunlight
and shadow dance across the words; the characters reach out from the
story, drawing her in. There is no Dr. Seuss here. Just prairie skies,
log cabins, barnyards, secret gardens. She goes to Brooklyn to watch a
tree grow in the sidewalk; she cries tears when Old Yeller dies.
Surreptitiously pilfered from library shelves, school rooms, her own
father's study, she's made these books her own-family members sitting
on orange crate shelves along with other treasures: the china doll in
faded persimmon silk that came on her fourth birthday when she was old
enough for a "big girl doll"; crystals stolen from the chandelier in
the hall the time the cleaning woman left the ladder there; thin
porcelain cups and saucers rescued from the rubbish heap, hairline
fractures barely noticed; scraps of velvet, satin and brocade from
Grandmama's quilting basket; torn photos from the Weekly and the
Rocket.
Clutching the fragile china doll to her chest, she rocks and croons,
"I am doll parts, doll eyes, doll heart. . ." The tears begin to flow
again; first Old Yeller, then Grandmama, now Kurt. She places the
books, the clippings, the scraps of herself in a pile and strikes one
match, then two. Tiny wisps of smoke curl as the dry paper catches
fire. She watches for awhile, curled into herself, rocking to and fro,
then turns away. She walks the short distance to the edge of the creek,
sits on a big rock while flames lick and dance behind her.
She pulls one crystal from her pocket and unwraps the paper cradling
it. Holding it aloft, she twirls it between her fingers while the
dazzle of fractured color dances along the water's edge and across
Kurt's fading newsprint face. She turns and tosses the page in with the
rest. Hesitantly, she dips her toes, the water a clear pale freeze over
her ankles, the pebbles on the creek bottom dappled with sunlight. It
is cold but it is life. The fire has reached the orchard now. Trees are
burning with a crackling crisp sound like logs on the Christmas hearth.
Pounding hooves and screams soar above the hiss of smoke, the rush of
wind. "Look on the bright side is suicide. . . Obituary birthday, your
scent is still here in my place of recovery." Soon it will be all gone.
All in all, it is what she is.