stood up and walked quickly to Violet’s crib. The sound came again, guttural and deep. Thunder, or the rumble of a train. Violet’s lungs not strong enough to expel whatever poison was inside. Lily checked the gauge on the oxygen tank and put her hands inside the plastic cocoon to rub Violet’s chest.
“Is she okay?” I asked.
“She’s fine, ” Lily said, turning around and glaring at me. Standing in the middle of the white living room, she could have been some sort of suburban angel hovering above this sick baby. Her bare feet on the thick, pale carpet the only evidence of the child I once knew.
H ere is Lily: grass-stained knees and purple shorts Ma got at the Methodist church rummage sale. Her halter top is stretched across her small chest and she is twirling her baton and walking on her hands. The portable record player is sitting on the front steps to the house, connected to the outlet in the kitchen by Daddy’s thick orange extension cord. The record is spinning around and around; the 45 of “Grand Ol’Flag” is scratchy. I know exactly where it will skip. I know exactly how flustered Ma will look when she lifts the arm and sets the needle back down.
Ma had dragged Lily’s stairs from the garage. On the side of the wooden prop, she had used a whole bottle of Elmer’s and a whole plastic container of silver glitter to write “Lily Brown” in her pretty handwriting. The steps themselves were covered in bright blue vinyl held down with shiny silver studs.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying not to get my legs tangled up in the extension cord, pretending to do math. Benny was under the table, peeling the wrappers off of Lily’s crayons.
Ma came in the room with a handful of mail. Through the window, I could see the mailman pulling back down our long driveway, waving to Lily, who was standing on top of the stairs waving.
“Where’s your brother?”
“He’s not doing nothin’, Ma,” I said.
“Benny, come out from under there right now. I am losing my patience.”
Ma was always losing her patience. I imagined it like a tennis shoe or an earring made of colored glass. Maybe she’d find it someday between the cushions of the couch or in the back of Benny’s closet. I don’t know why she needed him to come out. She was the reason he was there in the first place.
“Where’s your father?” Ma asked, sorting through the pile of bills.
“He’s out back,” I said, glad she’d decided to leave Benny alone.
It was Saturday, the only day that Daddy didn’t work. He owned a bar in town, called Rusty’s, and he was at the bar every day except for Saturdays, and sometimes even on Saturday afternoons he’d go in just to check on things. Sometimes he’d bring me with him to play pool. Today, he promised both Benny and me that we could go with him to work. Benny liked the onion rings and the jukebox. I liked the way the sunlight fell across the green felt on the table. I loved the sweet red liquid of a Shirley Temple and the sound of the balls falling after you put a quarter in the slot.
But now, Daddy was in the backyard trying to tame the weeds. The couch that his best friend, Eddie Grand, had brought to us instead of to the Goodwill was still sitting in the backyard. We couldn’t get it through the doorway, so Daddy put it out back. Sunflowers had first started to grow up around the couch in August, and by September had started to poke their way up through the cushions. It sat out there all winter and now it was completely tangled up in dead weeds.
Ma put all the mail down except for a manila envelope. She smiled and started to tear it open. She pulled out the contents and sat down at the table. She laid each sheet of paper out neatly across the table, making a shooing motion with her hand toward my math book. I slammed it shut and pushed it aside.
“What came?” I asked, trying to read upside down.
“Shhhh . . .” she said, scanning the first page and then the next.
“Ma
“Is she okay?” I asked.
“She’s fine, ” Lily said, turning around and glaring at me. Standing in the middle of the white living room, she could have been some sort of suburban angel hovering above this sick baby. Her bare feet on the thick, pale carpet the only evidence of the child I once knew.
H ere is Lily: grass-stained knees and purple shorts Ma got at the Methodist church rummage sale. Her halter top is stretched across her small chest and she is twirling her baton and walking on her hands. The portable record player is sitting on the front steps to the house, connected to the outlet in the kitchen by Daddy’s thick orange extension cord. The record is spinning around and around; the 45 of “Grand Ol’Flag” is scratchy. I know exactly where it will skip. I know exactly how flustered Ma will look when she lifts the arm and sets the needle back down.
Ma had dragged Lily’s stairs from the garage. On the side of the wooden prop, she had used a whole bottle of Elmer’s and a whole plastic container of silver glitter to write “Lily Brown” in her pretty handwriting. The steps themselves were covered in bright blue vinyl held down with shiny silver studs.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, trying not to get my legs tangled up in the extension cord, pretending to do math. Benny was under the table, peeling the wrappers off of Lily’s crayons.
Ma came in the room with a handful of mail. Through the window, I could see the mailman pulling back down our long driveway, waving to Lily, who was standing on top of the stairs waving.
“Where’s your brother?”
“He’s not doing nothin’, Ma,” I said.
“Benny, come out from under there right now. I am losing my patience.”
Ma was always losing her patience. I imagined it like a tennis shoe or an earring made of colored glass. Maybe she’d find it someday between the cushions of the couch or in the back of Benny’s closet. I don’t know why she needed him to come out. She was the reason he was there in the first place.
“Where’s your father?” Ma asked, sorting through the pile of bills.
“He’s out back,” I said, glad she’d decided to leave Benny alone.
It was Saturday, the only day that Daddy didn’t work. He owned a bar in town, called Rusty’s, and he was at the bar every day except for Saturdays, and sometimes even on Saturday afternoons he’d go in just to check on things. Sometimes he’d bring me with him to play pool. Today, he promised both Benny and me that we could go with him to work. Benny liked the onion rings and the jukebox. I liked the way the sunlight fell across the green felt on the table. I loved the sweet red liquid of a Shirley Temple and the sound of the balls falling after you put a quarter in the slot.
But now, Daddy was in the backyard trying to tame the weeds. The couch that his best friend, Eddie Grand, had brought to us instead of to the Goodwill was still sitting in the backyard. We couldn’t get it through the doorway, so Daddy put it out back. Sunflowers had first started to grow up around the couch in August, and by September had started to poke their way up through the cushions. It sat out there all winter and now it was completely tangled up in dead weeds.
Ma put all the mail down except for a manila envelope. She smiled and started to tear it open. She pulled out the contents and sat down at the table. She laid each sheet of paper out neatly across the table, making a shooing motion with her hand toward my math book. I slammed it shut and pushed it aside.
“What came?” I asked, trying to read upside down.
“Shhhh . . .” she said, scanning the first page and then the next.
“Ma
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