sunlight, an angry purple. Her brown hair, longer than last year, was wet and plastered against her head and face. She was surprisingly light, and I had little trouble getting her onto the dry blanket.
It was more difficult to pry the wet blanket from her grasp and pull it from her body. When I pulled the blanket from her fists, the Bible tumbled out. I picked it up. Most of the gold leaf was gone, but the name Pauline Jordan was still legible. I opened it up. On the inside an inscription read, “To Pauline on her sixteenth birthday. Love, Mom and Dad.” I closed the Bible and threw it into the back corner of the box.
Next came the step I had been dreading from the moment I had realized it would be necessary. I opened M’s pocketknife and cut away the damp dress from the Creature, focusing on the knife and cloth. I was relieved to discover she was wearing a slip under the thin, ragged dress. She shivered beneath the point of the blade. It took a lot longer than I expected due to having to cut the length of both sleeves and the extreme care I had to exercise not to cut her skin, which was cold and clammy.
By rolling her first one way, then the other, I was able to completely remove the wet dress and blanket. The task was simple to do single-handedly because she was distressingly light. The slip, though wet, I chose to leave intact. I was shocked at how emaciated she was. The chain with the strange symbol still hung from her neck.
I quickly draped Dad’s robe over her. Before I wrapped the dry blanket around her, I rubbed the Vicks on her chest and neck. Then I climbed into the box, grabbed the blanket, and dragged her in after me. Through a delicate bit of straddling I escaped from the box and pushed her the rest of the way in.
I then collapsed on the ground, exhausted from the emotional strain. I sat there for a long time, staring into the gloom of the box and the darker shape in the blanket. For some reason, M’s words came back to me: “
Sometimes you pray for something, something good, but it never happens. Sometimes you pray for something bad to quit, but it doesn’t.
”
I thought about my life. Although I felt like it was filled with events and even crises—the constant bouncing around from one school to another, the aborted friendships, the sudden spotlight of being a PK—nothing had ever happened that moved me to such desperation that I felt the imperative of turning to God for intervention. I had never asked M what things had moved him to that extreme. None of my business, most likely.
I was feeling something. I wondered if it was what M felt when he prayed. I thought about the Creature. She had a name, didn’t she? Why did I always think of her as the Creature? I glanced at the sky and then looked back into the depths of the box.
“God,” I muttered under my breath. “I think that’s Pauline in there. Don’t let her die.”
I got up and spread the second blanket over Pauline, who seemed to be shivering less than before. I placed the aspirin, the NyQuil, and Mrs. Marshall’s dress in the box next to her. I spread the wet blanket over the oil drum and tossed the old dress over the fence.
I joined M in the gap, gave him his knife, and we walked back home in silence.
That night I realized that Pauline needed more than warm clothes and medicine. She needed food. After everyone was in bed, I sneaked down and lifted a can opener and several cans of soup from the pantry, making sure to take only things Mom had two of. Sunday after church I returned to the courtyard without M.
I approached the box as before, stopping just short of the opening. The bottle of NyQuil was lying empty at my feet; the top, a few feet away.
I called out, “Hello?” I saw the blanket jerk. I crouched down and looked into the box. Pauline stared blankly past her shoes at me. I made a mental note to bring socks next time. “Hey, it’s me, Mark.”
“Mark. I have the Mark.” Her voice was an exhausted whisper with no
It was more difficult to pry the wet blanket from her grasp and pull it from her body. When I pulled the blanket from her fists, the Bible tumbled out. I picked it up. Most of the gold leaf was gone, but the name Pauline Jordan was still legible. I opened it up. On the inside an inscription read, “To Pauline on her sixteenth birthday. Love, Mom and Dad.” I closed the Bible and threw it into the back corner of the box.
Next came the step I had been dreading from the moment I had realized it would be necessary. I opened M’s pocketknife and cut away the damp dress from the Creature, focusing on the knife and cloth. I was relieved to discover she was wearing a slip under the thin, ragged dress. She shivered beneath the point of the blade. It took a lot longer than I expected due to having to cut the length of both sleeves and the extreme care I had to exercise not to cut her skin, which was cold and clammy.
By rolling her first one way, then the other, I was able to completely remove the wet dress and blanket. The task was simple to do single-handedly because she was distressingly light. The slip, though wet, I chose to leave intact. I was shocked at how emaciated she was. The chain with the strange symbol still hung from her neck.
I quickly draped Dad’s robe over her. Before I wrapped the dry blanket around her, I rubbed the Vicks on her chest and neck. Then I climbed into the box, grabbed the blanket, and dragged her in after me. Through a delicate bit of straddling I escaped from the box and pushed her the rest of the way in.
I then collapsed on the ground, exhausted from the emotional strain. I sat there for a long time, staring into the gloom of the box and the darker shape in the blanket. For some reason, M’s words came back to me: “
Sometimes you pray for something, something good, but it never happens. Sometimes you pray for something bad to quit, but it doesn’t.
”
I thought about my life. Although I felt like it was filled with events and even crises—the constant bouncing around from one school to another, the aborted friendships, the sudden spotlight of being a PK—nothing had ever happened that moved me to such desperation that I felt the imperative of turning to God for intervention. I had never asked M what things had moved him to that extreme. None of my business, most likely.
I was feeling something. I wondered if it was what M felt when he prayed. I thought about the Creature. She had a name, didn’t she? Why did I always think of her as the Creature? I glanced at the sky and then looked back into the depths of the box.
“God,” I muttered under my breath. “I think that’s Pauline in there. Don’t let her die.”
I got up and spread the second blanket over Pauline, who seemed to be shivering less than before. I placed the aspirin, the NyQuil, and Mrs. Marshall’s dress in the box next to her. I spread the wet blanket over the oil drum and tossed the old dress over the fence.
I joined M in the gap, gave him his knife, and we walked back home in silence.
That night I realized that Pauline needed more than warm clothes and medicine. She needed food. After everyone was in bed, I sneaked down and lifted a can opener and several cans of soup from the pantry, making sure to take only things Mom had two of. Sunday after church I returned to the courtyard without M.
I approached the box as before, stopping just short of the opening. The bottle of NyQuil was lying empty at my feet; the top, a few feet away.
I called out, “Hello?” I saw the blanket jerk. I crouched down and looked into the box. Pauline stared blankly past her shoes at me. I made a mental note to bring socks next time. “Hey, it’s me, Mark.”
“Mark. I have the Mark.” Her voice was an exhausted whisper with no
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