several final notices, and two copies of the new phone book, wrapped in brown paper. Elliott flipped through the collection, taking mental notes of the exciting variety of places from where the mail had come and filing this information away in the hungry places of his mind.
Washington, D.C. Chicago, Illinois. Pueblo, Colorado.
If there had been an atlas in his home like there had been in school, he would have looked them up. But the names themselves were intriguing enough.
He moved back into the house. His feet found the familiar, sticky warmth of the worn living room carpet. The cats peed here, and food from Elliott's mother's tray were spilled here. Elliott couldn't keep up with it all anymore, and so the cats continued to pee and his mother's trembling hands continued to knock portions of her dinners onto her lap and onto the floor.
Elliott dropped the stack of mail onto the top of the console television. He moved into the small kitchen. The windows were closed and locked in defiance of the cool May air. Orange flowered curtains hung, dead weights against grease-iced window glass.
There was a two-liter Dr. Pepper in the refrigerator.
Elliott took a long swing from the bottle. "Ellie?"
Elliott's stomach fluttered. He turned toward the call. A drip of cola caught in the corner of his mouth then slid to his chin. "What, Mom?"
"Can't hear my set. Come turn it up, honey."
Elliott put the drink back and closed the refrigerator door. On the door, held by an eclectic collection of magnets, were some of Elliott's best school papers from seventh grade. A spelling test, "A+!” A letter written in social studies to George Washington, "96, Good job Elliott!" Numerous charcoal, pastel, and watercolor artworks, each praised in red ink on a Post-It Note by Mrs. Pugh, the middle school art teacher. He would have had Mrs. Pugh in eighth grade this year for advanced art if he had not been so sick.
But he was homebound now.
He was sick. He knew it, Mom knew it. So very, very sick.
“Just like me, Ellie,” his mother had said. “If you go to school today I might just be dead when you get home.”
And so homebound was the only answer.
"Ellie? The set, I can't hear it and I can't get up. My back's doing it again."
Elliott went down the short dark hall to his mother's room. The door was open. Smells of stale cigarettes, medicated vaporizer, and illness hung around the doorway, a heavy, eye-stinging, invisible fog.
"Set, baby, fix it for me."
He stepped into the bedroom. The floor here was bare linoleum. It was not the pleasant coolness of the front stoop; it was clammy on the skin of his soles. But it was familiar. It was never a shock.
Mom was on her back in her bed, three pillows against the wobbly headboard, one set of white fingers curled around the bedspread at her chest, one set around a cigarette. In the blue light of the television set the skin on her thin face seemed to jump and crawl. When she smiled, Elliott could see her bad teeth. There were three of the cats on the bed with her. Next to the bed was the wheelchair the health department had given her.
"Can't hear it," Mom said. She drew on the cigarette. The smoke blew back out in the wind of a violent cough. She found her voice and said, "Just a little volume, honey."
Elliott stepped to the tiny black and white set on Mom's dresser, and poked at the volume button until the chattering voices were uncomfortably loud. Mom said, "That's just fine, Ellie."
"Anything else?" There was a cat turd on the bottom of Elliott's foot. He looked at the bottom of it but couldn't see except that it looked dark and it felt soft and warm. "You need anything else?"
"Teacher come yet?"
"No. Mrs. Anderson won't be here until two."
Mom sucked on the cigarette like it was the tube on an oxygen mask. She let the smoke out then said, "I just can't rest good today. I'm hurting. My back, my heart is just hammering like it wants to come out. Lay with me 'til I'm asleep."
I thought you
Washington, D.C. Chicago, Illinois. Pueblo, Colorado.
If there had been an atlas in his home like there had been in school, he would have looked them up. But the names themselves were intriguing enough.
He moved back into the house. His feet found the familiar, sticky warmth of the worn living room carpet. The cats peed here, and food from Elliott's mother's tray were spilled here. Elliott couldn't keep up with it all anymore, and so the cats continued to pee and his mother's trembling hands continued to knock portions of her dinners onto her lap and onto the floor.
Elliott dropped the stack of mail onto the top of the console television. He moved into the small kitchen. The windows were closed and locked in defiance of the cool May air. Orange flowered curtains hung, dead weights against grease-iced window glass.
There was a two-liter Dr. Pepper in the refrigerator.
Elliott took a long swing from the bottle. "Ellie?"
Elliott's stomach fluttered. He turned toward the call. A drip of cola caught in the corner of his mouth then slid to his chin. "What, Mom?"
"Can't hear my set. Come turn it up, honey."
Elliott put the drink back and closed the refrigerator door. On the door, held by an eclectic collection of magnets, were some of Elliott's best school papers from seventh grade. A spelling test, "A+!” A letter written in social studies to George Washington, "96, Good job Elliott!" Numerous charcoal, pastel, and watercolor artworks, each praised in red ink on a Post-It Note by Mrs. Pugh, the middle school art teacher. He would have had Mrs. Pugh in eighth grade this year for advanced art if he had not been so sick.
But he was homebound now.
He was sick. He knew it, Mom knew it. So very, very sick.
“Just like me, Ellie,” his mother had said. “If you go to school today I might just be dead when you get home.”
And so homebound was the only answer.
"Ellie? The set, I can't hear it and I can't get up. My back's doing it again."
Elliott went down the short dark hall to his mother's room. The door was open. Smells of stale cigarettes, medicated vaporizer, and illness hung around the doorway, a heavy, eye-stinging, invisible fog.
"Set, baby, fix it for me."
He stepped into the bedroom. The floor here was bare linoleum. It was not the pleasant coolness of the front stoop; it was clammy on the skin of his soles. But it was familiar. It was never a shock.
Mom was on her back in her bed, three pillows against the wobbly headboard, one set of white fingers curled around the bedspread at her chest, one set around a cigarette. In the blue light of the television set the skin on her thin face seemed to jump and crawl. When she smiled, Elliott could see her bad teeth. There were three of the cats on the bed with her. Next to the bed was the wheelchair the health department had given her.
"Can't hear it," Mom said. She drew on the cigarette. The smoke blew back out in the wind of a violent cough. She found her voice and said, "Just a little volume, honey."
Elliott stepped to the tiny black and white set on Mom's dresser, and poked at the volume button until the chattering voices were uncomfortably loud. Mom said, "That's just fine, Ellie."
"Anything else?" There was a cat turd on the bottom of Elliott's foot. He looked at the bottom of it but couldn't see except that it looked dark and it felt soft and warm. "You need anything else?"
"Teacher come yet?"
"No. Mrs. Anderson won't be here until two."
Mom sucked on the cigarette like it was the tube on an oxygen mask. She let the smoke out then said, "I just can't rest good today. I'm hurting. My back, my heart is just hammering like it wants to come out. Lay with me 'til I'm asleep."
I thought you
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