Breathing Water (15 page)
Alice bowed her head to her chin to hide her smile. I couldn't hold back my giggles anymore, and I laughed and pointed at Maggie like an elementary school bully.
“Thanks a lot.” She scowled. “This was your idea.”
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Later, Alice reluctantly put on the silver paper hat that strapped under her chin. The six candles on the Cookie Monster cake made Maggie's kitchen feel warm, the small glow made me feel sleepy and safe. Maggie sang off-key, and I couldn't find my own voice as we sang the happy birthday song.
Alice's face was illuminated, and for a moment I thought,
This is all I need.
All I need in the world is this child's face, full of light, contemplating her one wish. Knowing that she was the one who would not tell, would not give away her secret. That her silence would make the wish come true. Her eyelashes flickered and she extinguished the light, and then Maggie was cutting the cake and my mouth was full of the sweetness of blue coconut.
This is all I need.
All I need in the world is this child's face, full of light, contemplating her one wish. Knowing that she was the one who would not tell, would not give away her secret. That her silence would make the wish come true. Her eyelashes flickered and she extinguished the light, and then Maggie was cutting the cake and my mouth was full of the sweetness of blue coconut.
When Maggie carried Alice up the stairs to her room, I went outside onto Maggie's porch and stared out at the lake. It's funny how this lake could have been an entirely different lake than the one I saw when I looked out of Gussy's windows. From here, the water was veiled in intricate lacy patterns of leaves. Black and complicated, obscuring everything familiar. I couldn't see the island from here. I couldn't see the Foresters' dock or the Hansel and Gretel cottage with the lonely red swing. I could have been in another country altogether tonight. I could have been farther away from home than ever before.
I didn't bring the butterflies to show Maggie. I didn't even show them to Gussy earlier. Like a birthday wish, I was afraid that if I talked about them their magic would disappear. I put them in the top drawer of the bureau, burying them underneath a nightgown.
“Out like a light. Even without a swim,” Maggie said, handing me a beer.
“No thanks.”
“You're quiet tonight,” Maggie said. She sat down in the wicker rocking chair. The caning was coming apart, sticking out in places. Its lap was hazardous if you didn't understand its weaknesses.
“I guess,” I said.
“Thanks for the swimming pool. I'm sorry she didn't want to swim. She's terrified of the water.”
I noticed the unconscious rhythm of a bullfrog's moans against Maggie's slow rocking. I noticed the rhythm of my own breaths struggling to catch up with theirs.
“She wasn't always afraid. I used to give her baths in the sink when she was a baby. I used to take her in the lake with me too. But when she got older, she wouldn't go near it. I even had to take her in the shower with me and tell her that it was only rain. Imagine that. Trying to convince a bright kid that it's raining from the ceiling.” Maggie paused and took a drink. “It didn't matter to her father though. No sir, he wouldn't have it. Hell, his brothers were practically
born
in Gormlaith, he said. No child of his was gonna be scared of no goddamn lake. He liked to tease her. He'd hold her over the water, pretend he was going to drop her in. He never would have, of course, but it still wasn't right. Lots of things about that man weren't right.”
born
in Gormlaith, he said. No child of his was gonna be scared of no goddamn lake. He liked to tease her. He'd hold her over the water, pretend he was going to drop her in. He never would have, of course, but it still wasn't right. Lots of things about that man weren't right.”
“Why doesn't she talk?” I asked. My voice was so quiet, I wasn't sure if I had said anything at all.
Maggie looked at me and then looked out at the lake. “He used to go to this place in Quimby after work. Damn, what was it called? Remember that bar near the old roller rink?” She turned back toward me.
“I don't know,” I said.
“Anyway, that's where he used to go after work sometimes. I'd be at home trying to put something decent together for supper, trying to get Alice cleaned up. I'd get so pissed that I was doing all this work just to make his life easier when he got home from work, and all the while he was getting loaded in town. On top of it all, we only had the one car, so if I needed anything from the store I had to wait until he got back before I could get it. Most of the time even Hudson's was closed by the time he got home. Half the time the food was cold and Alice was already in bed. Know what I mean?”
I nodded.
Maggie's face looked tired. She pulled her hair up off her neck and wound it into a knot on the top of her head. She pulled a cigarette out and lit it, breathing in the smoke and letting it out in one graceful motion.
“One night, he comes home late from âwork,' and he's stinking like the bar. I remember when he pulled into the driveway I took his plate out and put it in the microwave. When he came stumbling in the kitchen, I was standing there watching it go around and around. That's how I used to deal with him, you know? I'd stare at something. Didn't matter what it was. It could have been laundry or a crack in the linoleum. Just something to take my mind off of him. That night it was that plate, spinning around and around. Shepherd's pie. That's Alice's favorite next to macaroni and cheese with hot dogs.” She rocked quietly, and I pulled my knees up under my chin.
“So anyways, he says,
What's that crap?
Or somethin' to that effect. And all I do is watch it spin.
I said, what's that shit that's stinkin' up my house?
he says and comes up behind me. But still I'm staring at that plate like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. Like it's the goddamn Mona Lisa or something. And then I can feel him pushin' up against me. That same feeling you'd get in junior high when you're dancing with some stupid boy and his stupid eighth-grade hardâon.
It smells like pussy,
he says, cackling like he's made about the funniest joke ever, like he's fucking
Seinfeld
or something. And all the while, he's pushing me into the counter.”
What's that crap?
Or somethin' to that effect. And all I do is watch it spin.
I said, what's that shit that's stinkin' up my house?
he says and comes up behind me. But still I'm staring at that plate like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. Like it's the goddamn Mona Lisa or something. And then I can feel him pushin' up against me. That same feeling you'd get in junior high when you're dancing with some stupid boy and his stupid eighth-grade hardâon.
It smells like pussy,
he says, cackling like he's made about the funniest joke ever, like he's fucking
Seinfeld
or something. And all the while, he's pushing me into the counter.”
She leaned forward in the rocking chair and offered me the cigarette. I took it from her and took a small drag. My knees felt weak.
“Funny thing is, I must've known. I must've known that night when I picked the shepherd's pie instead of the laundry or the linoleum. I must've known that the blue numbers on the microwave were counting down for a reason.”
I looked at Maggie's hands bracing the edge of the rocking chair, and I started to feel sick.
“Come on, honey,
he says.
Let me taste that nasty pussy food.
And then all them blue numbers turned to zeros. It took a long time. Ten whole minutes I was watching that damn casserole go around. And when it beeped, I could barely believe it. It was like a frickin' movie or something. I mean, he kept on pushing into me, drooling down my neck, and I was reaching for the potholder like nothing was wrong. And for a second, when I pulled the plate out, I actually thought that it was over. That he'd take his hands off of me, and he'd go to the table and pick up his fork. That I'd set the food in front of him and he'd forget all about pushing me.”
he says.
Let me taste that nasty pussy food.
And then all them blue numbers turned to zeros. It took a long time. Ten whole minutes I was watching that damn casserole go around. And when it beeped, I could barely believe it. It was like a frickin' movie or something. I mean, he kept on pushing into me, drooling down my neck, and I was reaching for the potholder like nothing was wrong. And for a second, when I pulled the plate out, I actually thought that it was over. That he'd take his hands off of me, and he'd go to the table and pick up his fork. That I'd set the food in front of him and he'd forget all about pushing me.”
Maggie exhaled a cloud of silvery smoke. “But he didn't stop. He kept on licking my neck, scraping my skin with his beard. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get him to stop. So I reached my hand up and touched his head. I did it so gentle, it was almost like the way we used to touch each other.” Maggie's voice broke.
“I burned him so bad his whole face blistered. The plate shattered into a zillion pieces and he was sobbing and yelling. The neighbors finally called nine-one-one. Ironic, isn't it? Just a week before, he pushed me into the screen door so hard I sprained my wrist. I fell right out onto the front yard in the middle of the afternoon, and it takes his howling to get the cops to come.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“He came home later on that night, all bandaged up. I slept in Alice's bed. He didn't bother me no more that night.”
“I mean, when did he leave for good?”
Maggie rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand like a sleepy child. “About a year later.”
I didn't ask any more questions. I didn't want to know.
Maggie got out of the rocking chair and sat down next to me on the steps. She put her arms across my shoulders and squeezed. She smelled like dish soap.
“How 'bout you?” she asked softly.
“What?” I asked, my eyes stinging.
“What did you watch?”
This was not the conversation I wanted to have. This was not the way I wanted to feel. I shivered and shook my head.
“I'm sorry,” Maggie said.
“For what?” I asked, blinking furiously.
“For not answering your question,” she said. “About why Alice doesn't talk.”
Fall 1989
C
andle wax. Blue candle wax that drips in hot pools, solidifying as soon as the blue rains onto my skin. In the other room, he drinks his mother's face. He imbibes her face with too much mascara and too little patience, crow's feet etched into her eyes as if into stone. Her hands like a man's, only painted and bobbled, nails chipping dime-store red petals.
andle wax. Blue candle wax that drips in hot pools, solidifying as soon as the blue rains onto my skin. In the other room, he drinks his mother's face. He imbibes her face with too much mascara and too little patience, crow's feet etched into her eyes as if into stone. Her hands like a man's, only painted and bobbled, nails chipping dime-store red petals.
I sit on the bare mattress in our first apartment, our first night, and wonder why I am here. I look at a pale brown stain on the Goodwill mattress and feel sick. I press my ear against the wall and listen to someone else's dinner. Forks and knives like wind chimes. Chairs pushed away from the table. Sighs and water running hot and soapy, hands washing and drying. I imagine two pairs of feet side by side at the sink. Wool socks to ward off the cold of wooden floors.
I am startled by the sound of the radiator next to the bed. I didn't realize that they breathe like animals instead of machines, that their insides rumble like hungry beasts, that they spit and cuss like angry old men.
I move slowly away from the wall and peer into an open box filled with blankets and sheets. It seems important suddenly to cover the bare mattress. Touching the flannel daisies, too large and too symmetrical, transports me to my mother and father's bed. Childhood Saturday mornings when the whole house smelled like coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice thick with pulp. When my mother refused to get dressed until long after noon and she would read to us in that bed (the one that looked like the Princess and the pea's).
His mother's fingernails were like broken rose petals, rotting black and falling away from their stems. Stems of martini glasses as thin and fragile as blades of grass. While she waited for his father who never came home, she tapped her fingernails against the glass. Speared the salty olive with her sharp pinky nail and offered it to him.
I take the sheets out of the box and begin to make the bed. I tug at the bottom sheet, pulling it tightly under the edges of the filthy mattress. In the other room, I can hear the radiators clanking, the bottom of his empty bottle clanking against the kitchen table my mother gave us.
When the pillows are covered, and the comforter is resting tidily, prettily on top of the bed, I start to unpack the other things. Books and borrowed dishes. Plastic tumblers from the back of my mother's cupboard. Mismatched plates and a rusty can opener. I am beginning my life with him with borrowed things. Even the candles are ones I found in the junk drawer in my mother's kitchen.
I put the brass candleholder on the windowsill next to the bed. There are no dangerous curtains threatening fire. I can see the neighbors' television glowing blue through Venetian blinds.
In the other room, he drinks his mother's face. Too much mascara and too little patience.
When she cried,
he says,
the makeup made black rivers, black pools on everything white
: pillow covers, her cheeks, his fingers.
When she cried,
he says,
the makeup made black rivers, black pools on everything white
: pillow covers, her cheeks, his fingers.
I hold the burning match for a moment too long. Long enough to burn the very tips of my fingers, but not long enough to blister.
The phone call came after he had taken my clothes off. After he pressed me into the old mattress so hard I thought I might be swallowed by the ticking. When the phone rang, he pulled himself out of me like a cork, letting the insides of me spill warmly onto the bare mattress.
Hello?
A pause.
I'm not coming there.
A pause.
I'm not coming there.
Naked and spilling on the bare mattress I imagined that I was glass. That he could see through me, at the empty places inside.
Mom, don't do this to me.
I reached for something to cover my body. I didn't want him to see through me now. But he wasn't looking at me, he was walking away with the phone, the cord curling into the kitchen where I could still hear him. A child's voice. A boy pleading.
And then he was lying down with his head in my lap like an infant, burying his face in my hair. His body trembled. I stroked his hair out of his eyes, ringed red.
“It's okay,” I said. “She won't do it. She never does.”
He sat up, blinking the tears out his eyes, his facing changing from a child's into something else. Something angry and cruel. “What the fuck do you know?”
“I only meant, don't worry,” I said, shrinking away from him.
“Now you're an expert at convincing someone not to swallow the medicine cabinet? How many times did your mother hold a razor blade to her wrists while she was on the phone with you?
How is school, honey? Getting straight As? By the way my wrists are bleeding all over the fucking carpet.”
How is school, honey? Getting straight As? By the way my wrists are bleeding all over the fucking carpet.”
“Max, you're not being fair.” I tried holding my hand out to him.
He reached toward me and grabbed my shoulders. It startled me, and my body turned to wood. “I'll tell you what's not fair. It's not fair that my mother is a fucking lunatic. It's not fair that my father took off and left me with her to fend for myself. It's not
fair
that people like you walk around in a haze of happiness. That you live your life oblivious.”
fair
that people like you walk around in a haze of happiness. That you live your life oblivious.”
“Oblivious to
what?
” I asked. His fingers were pressing into my shoulders like pins. “I'm here, aren't I? I'm here with you.”
what?
” I asked. His fingers were pressing into my shoulders like pins. “I'm here, aren't I? I'm here with you.”
“What an angel you are, Effie. What a kindhearted soul to offer yourself up to someone as troubled as myself. You're on your way to heaven, Effie. There's no stopping you now,” he said, his teeth clenched together.
In the other room, he drinks his mother's face. Mascara puddles and hands trembling too much to hold a cigarette. Nails red with the blood of his back when she clung to him asking him when his father was coming home.
I pull my shirt off and touch the blue fingerprints on my shoulders; I am pinned still to this stinking mattress, hidden in my mother's sheets. I take the candle and let the blue wax drip hot onto my skin. It burns at first, but then it doesn't hurt anymore. I can get used to this pain. I can understand.
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