Fallout (6 page)
the angle of the neck
the shattered skull.
Everything. Everything about this
girl is broken.
In the shower
the heat
the steam
the water
the endless hot tears
swirl through and around and into
me
into the street scene so real
that sometimes I wonder
Should I stay unclean?
Snap the taps back off
wrap the towel around me
sink to the floor
a locked door between me and
all those funeral preparations
relatives hunched over the dining
room table
struggling to write the obituary
waiting for me to join them
to help honor the life that was my
sister's.
She checked out
made it easy on herself.
But what about us?
What about me?
The way forward, through the
bathroom door
littered with saying the wrong thing
smiling when the last thing I want
to do is smile.
The way back, through time, a
minefield of
what-ifs
if-onlys
I-should-haves.
Or I can stay here
in the quiet of this small room
until someone panics
breaks down the door.
The applause carries me back to our table.
“Good job,” Maddy says. “You'll get through to round two for sure.”
Ebony nods. “Shh. Karl's up.”
Karl explodes with a poem about two Germanys before the Berlin Wall was taken down.
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot to kill.
We protect our citizens
keep them safe behind the wall.
Ebony is next. Her whole body lifts into the poem. Her mother black, her father white, she lives in a simmering space between. The words tumble and roll around her. She rises up onto her toes, her hips moving this way and that. She is fierce in the challenges she throws at us.
People shout and bang mugs on tables even before the last words fade away. She drops her face into her hands and backs away from the mic. When she slides back into the empty seat beside me, she cannot suppress a smile.
“Good,” I say. “You made it.”
She crosses her fingers and holds them high.
Six of us move on to the second round of the night. Everyone is sharp and hungry.
Blake, tonight's emcee, says, “Please welcome Tara Manson.”
This is what's in the mail:
Two men and a strong ladder
to fix your gutter
hungry students to paint your house.
Phone bill. VISA statement.
Who cares? stuff
arrives every day.
Then, a fat envelope
soft with crinkles as if
it had been well-handled
or stuffed in a backpack
or hidden under a mattress
or all of the above.
Addressed to me.
It isn't my name
that hits me like a punch to the gut.
It's the loopy handwriting
a heart over the letter
i
each time it appears.
Wild thoughts crash into each other
a hailstorm
of jumbled questions.
Where is Hannah writing from?
If the girl in front of the bus wasn't
Hannah
then who?
On my bed
legs crossed
hands quivering
I tear open the envelope and
tug out the contents
start with the letter
writtenâin haste?
With plenty of time to consider?
Dear Tara
By the time you read this
I will be gone.
Don't be sad it's better like this.
It doesn't matter if I am
around anymore
you and Mom and Dad
deserve to be happy
it's bad that you are always
worrying about me.
She goes on to explain
no friends no life no hope no future
nothing but some kind of dark hole
where she has no interest in staying.
She doesn't expect me to understand.
I am a drain on you and
everyone.
I know you are trying to help
but that isn't your job.
You will be happy at university
and this way you don't need to
worry.
If I do this now
you won't have to miss
any school for the funeral.
As if missing school for the funeral
might have been a hardship
as if going to a funeral
is something you want to do
instead of other things
as if there's no contest
as if this is a logical choice
Stupid stupid stupid ass.
I love you forever and always
your sister
Hannah
I turn it over and over and over
looking for moreâover and overâ
trying to find Hannah
over and overâ
Written on the back
of a fast-food restaurant tray liner
the note dodges grease spots.
The page swims before my eyes
wobbly, uncertain
real and final.
Tucked into the envelope
a napkin
scarred with chicken-scratch lists
Dad
Cash (not much, sorry
look in my purse, bank
account closed)
School books and papers
(or just burn them)
I hear the
or whatever
she has
not added.
Mom
Books
Riding ribbons, trophies
etcetera
Tara
Riding stuff (I think it's all
down in the basement)
Earrings (except for horse-
shoesâthose to Jackie)
Books (share with Mom)
Clothes (or give away to
charity)
The pen had skipped and blotted
over her last will and testament
scribbled in a booth?
on a hard plastic seat?
at the bus stop?
Earrings. Books. Clothes.
Did she expect us to appreciate
this thoughtful gesture?
Did she imagine we'd be thankful that
even in her time of despair
she was thinking of us
when, clearly, she was not thinking
of us at all
or she would have known that this
pitiful offering
was so shallowâso selfish
a transparent attempt to ease her
conscience
by tidying up her room
putting her affairs in some kind of
order.
My name is on the envelope
and this is how it slips under my
lacy bras
and silk panties
tucks into a dark corner and rests
there awhile
until the time comes
to share this last moment of
Hannah's
with the handful of others
who need to know.
Slams are different from regular poetry readings. At an old-fashioned poetry reading the audience is polite even when the poetry sucks. At a slam, crowds sometimes hiss and boo. Things aren't quite that bad tonight, but I'm not surprised when my name is not one of the four second-round winners.
Ebony advances and so does a skinny guy called Mike. He looks about twelve but he's actually twenty. Mike is hilarious. He does a poem about the war between a procrastinator and his conscience. We're all grabbing for napkins so we don't spray our drinks everywhere.
Karl, the German guy, moves on, even though I don't think his second poem is that great. Rosie, the fast-talking food girl, is the fourth poet to survive to round three.
It's a relief, in a way, to be able to sit back and listen.
The last round is intense. Ebony does a great job with a poem about the pleasures of sleep. I doubt I'm the only one ready for bed by the time she's done. Even though Karl's poem about a puppet is really clever, he doesn't stand a chance, and Ebony winds up being the big winner of the night.
“Congratulations,” I say. “Nice,” I add, examining her gift basket. It's full of fancy chocolates and good coffee. She also won the big cash prize of thirty-five bucks.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling. “Sorry about tonight.”
I shrug. “It's okay,” I say, though it isn't.
The organizers of the slam series are over behind the counter, punching calculator buttons. Tonight's the night they announce the team. It would be better to know if I'm not going. We all hold hands under the table when the emcee, Blake, steps up on the stage and grabs the mic.
“What an exciting series this has been. Let's have a round of applause for all the poets.”
I squeeze Ebony's hand and she squeezes back.
“As I announce the winners' names, please come up here onstage so we can share the love!” Hoots and whoops fill the coffee shop. “The following fine poets will represent our fair city at the National Poetry Slam to be held in Corinthian two weeks from now!”
“Karl Meisnerâ”
“I knew he'd make it,” Maddy says.
“Tiffany Hwan. Andâ¦Ebony Graham.”
I let go of Ebony's hand. “Congratulations!” Ebony's huge grin says it all.
“We have an odd situation here,” Blake says as Ebony joins the others onstage. “We have a tie for fourth placeâTara Manson and Rosie McCarthy. Would you lovely ladies please join us up on stage?”
Stunned, I do as I'm told.
“We're allowed to send four team members and one alternate. One of you two will be our fourth and the other the alternate, and⦔ Blake shuffles through his papers and then asks Geoff, who's in charge of the sound system, “What did we decide?”
“We didn't!” Geoff booms from the back of the room. “We'll figure out a fair way to choose our fourth, but either way, you're both going to Nationals.”
That seems to be enough to satisfy the crowd, and the place erupts into a wild frenzy of cheers and clapping.
Ebony gives me a huge hug. “Two weeks!” she says. “Corinthian, here we come!”
Back at our table, we're joined by the other team members and a skinny boy I've seen before but have never met.
“They should have just picked one of us,” Rosie says. She probably means they should have picked her. “It's not fair to not know who's on and who's not.”
“You're both going,” Ebony says. “They have special events for the alternates.”
“So cool you get to go again,” the skinny boy says. Karl is the only one who has been to Nationals before.
“Do you guys all know my brother, Ossie?” he asks, nudging the skinny boy with his elbow.
We exchange greetings and order another round of drinks. It's late and we're still buzzing when the baristas start sweeping up around us.
“Do you want to walk home?” Ebony asks.
“Good plan.” I'm wide awake now.
“I can walk with you as far as the train station,” Rosie says.
I don't know Rosie very well. Chatting with Ebony won't be the same. Then again, we're sort of teammates, so I suck it up and say, “Sure. You live over that way?”
“On Fifth. About two minutes from the station.”
Everyone else fades into the night and we head down Bingham Street. A light rain starts to fall when we take the shortcut through the park.
“What poem were you going to do if you'd made it through to the last round tonight?” Ebony asks.
Is she wondering if I performed the right pieces? If I had done things a little differently, maybe I would have had the extra point I needed to make the team. We're supposed to find out about the final decision at a team meeting in two days. How are they going to decide?
“I was going to do âObituary
.
'”
“Is that the one where your family is fighting about what to put in the paper?”
“That's the one.”
“Can you do poetry and walk at the same time?” Ebony asks.
“That's okay. I'm sure Rosie doesn't want toâ”
“No, go ahead.” Rosie's slow to say it.
Ebony barges in. “Don't be shy! Go on. There's nothing like an obituary poem to take your mind off the rain!”
Rosie shoves her hands deep in her pockets and keeps walking.
“You might need to do it at Nationals. Every chance to practice is good, right?”
I can't argue with that. “Fine.”
The dark shapes of trees and bushes are hiding places for who knows what kinds of people that haunt the park at night. The louder I am, the more likely I'll scare them off.
Fill in the blanks
and come up with an acceptable
obituary.
Our beloved so-and-so
taken too early
to return to God
leaving behind
loving husband wife
two sons a daughter
grandchildren
a dog
â¦after a valiant battle
cancer, stroke
Lived a full and happy life
old age.
Thank you to the caring staff