Hush (11 page)

“Because . . . because I know you’re gonna be okay.”

We drank our tea and didn’t say anything for a long time. People came and went. The waitresses rushed past us, looking tired and harried.

“Do you ever think about that boy, T?”

When I didn’t answer, Anna just kept talking.

“What do you think about him? I mean really, really think. Not just what comes across your mind once in a while, but in your gut. What do you think about him way late at night when your mind’s too tired to flick itself away from thinking too deep?”

I looked down at the letter.
We are very happy to inform you. We are very happy to inform you. We are very happy to inform you.
“I don’t know. When you turned fifteen, I remember thinking that you were the age he was when he died. Sometimes I wonder where he was thinking about going to college or whether his schoolteacher mom still taught. Mostly, I just wish it never would have happened.” I moved my finger slowly around the rim of my mug and thought for a moment. “Or that Daddy hadn’t been there.”

Anna stared at me. With her hair out and the makeup she had sneaked on after we left the house, she looked older. She had started dressing like the other kids at school, in tight, cropped sweaters, designer pants and high-soled shoes that made her taller than I was.

“When I was applying to Simon’s Rock,” she said, “I wrote about him. I talked about how Mama’s religion says we go back to the dust, but I don’t know if I believe that, because I feel the boy with me all the time. How at first I used to think it was so, so crazy—us, the innocent ones, having to leave because of some messed-up stuff the cops did. But now I think of it as part of a plan—a bigger plan. I don’t know if it’s God’s or the universe’s or Raymond Taylor’s or fate’s, but I feel like . . .” She leaned across the table, running her hand lovingly over the letter. “I feel like whatever it is, is way bigger than we are.”

The waitress came over and asked us if we wanted anything else. I shook my head, but Anna ordered another cup of tea. The waitress gathered up our cups, looking annoyed.

“And a check, please,” Anna said sweetly.

After the waitress left again, Anna picked up the letter. “Listen. This is the important part.
While we cannot offer you a full scholarship at this time, Simon’s Rock can offer a two-thirds scholarship. You may also be eligible for our work-study program . . .”

I sniffed, wiped my nose with the back of my hand.

“T,” Anna said, looking up from the letter. “Don’t. Come on, girlie. Be happy for me. You can visit me there, you know. Every weekend if you want. It’s only three hours away.” She touched my hand across the table. I snatched it back from underneath hers and quickly wiped my eyes.

“It hurts not to cry,” I said, half laughing. “I mean, like my whole face and throat hurts trying to hold it in.”

Anna nodded, taking my hand again. “God, do I know
that.”

“You always cry when you want to,” I said. “When we first moved here, I’d hear you bawling every night.”

Anna looked at me. “But after a while I learned to hold it in. Else I’d always be crying. Always. I hate it here so much . . .” She stopped, shook her head. “This is behind me now. This present is almost over.”

“What makes you think it’s going to be so much better?”

“Because it already is! Just knowing I won’t have to be around us like we are now all bunched up in that stupid tiny apartment, Daddy always at the window looking like some shell and Ma gone crazy with religion! I
hate
us the way—” She stopped again. “It just has to be better, that’s all.”

“But Mama’s got a job now. It’ll be different.”

Anna looked at me but didn’t say anything.

“She’s not gonna let you go, you know.”

Anna took the envelope off the table and folded the letter back into it. “Yes, she will.”

“Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t believe in college. You’re supposed to go into the ministry.”

“Jeez, Evie. You’re starting to sound like her. You better watch out.”

I shrugged. “You have the whole summer to work on her.”

Anna shook her head. “The spring semester starts January nineteenth. I have to be there by noon.”

“You can’t leave in January, Anna.”

Anna looked at me and said, “I’m leaving.”

The waitress set Anna’s tea in front of her and put a check in the middle of the table. Anna put a ten-dollar bill on top of it. “We should give her a nice tip since we probably won’t make it to the movies anyway, huh?”

“Whatever.”

“Mama’s a teacher first, Evie. Even with all the Joho stuff. She wants something better for us than this crap. She hates how we’re living. Hates it. You know that and I know that. College? Even as she’s trying to argue with me about it, I know she’ll be thinking
Yes, this one’s getting away!
”

“That was before all of this. She’s way different now.” I knew I was lying and Anna knew it, too.

She blew on her tea, looking at me over the cup.

“When’s your first track meet?”

“Next Saturday. We have to be at school at ten in the morning.”

“How come you’re not telling them about this?”

“The same reason I didn’t tell you. Because it’s mine, that’s why. And I’m not sure I’m gonna keep running. I don’t even know if I’m good at it.”

“Who
cares
if you’re good at it.”

“
I
do. I want to be good at something. I want to be amazing at it. So amazing that nobody’s gonna be able to take it away from me.”

Anna raised her eyebrows. “Guess we got another movie date coming then, huh, girlie?” She winked at me and took a long sip of her tea.

“Thanks, Anna,” I said, meaning it.

22

ON SUNDAY MORNING, I FELL ASLEEP AT Kingdom Hall and Mama made me go for a walk when we got home.

“You obviously need some air,” she said, annoyed. “If you can’t keep your eyes open for a two-hour meeting.”

“I’d rather be inside,” I lied, and tried not to change too quickly into my running clothes. I winked at Anna as I tied the corny running shoes Mama had bought me, flexing my feet and trying hard not to smile.

It was still cold out, but once I started running, the air seemed to grow warmer around me. I ran slowly, heading down the block then around the corner toward the park that was a mile from our building. There were people dressed up in church clothes gathered outside the Baptist church near the park and teenagers dressed in party clothes, walking tiredly from the subway. At the entrance to the park, I stopped running and bent over to regain my breath. When I looked up again, I saw Toswiah coming out of the park with a black dog on a leash. She was walking beside a tall girl with glasses and Toswiah’s narrow face and high cheekbones. I waved, and the girl lifted her hand and grinned. She walked with a bit of a limp and her left hand lifted into the air. Toswiah tilted her head toward me but didn’t wave. I jogged over to them.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey yourself,” Toswiah said. “This is my sister. Sheila.”

“Hey yourself,” Sheila said. She grinned again, then bent down to pet the dog, who was sniffing at me.

Toswiah raised an eyebrow at me but didn’t say anything.

“Good doggie,” Sheila said. She had a high voice, like someone younger.

“She is a good doggie,” I said, bending down to stroke the dog’s fur. “I wish I had one.”

“You can’t have mine!” Sheila said. “She’s all mine!” She sat down on the ground and buried her face in the dog’s fur.

I looked at Toswiah and smiled. “I really wasn’t gonna take her from you guys.”

Then Toswiah laughed. “Sheila’s kind of attached.”

“I see! Jeez, Sheila!”

“All mine,” Sheila said, grinning at me.

A wind blew and I shivered. I was sweating underneath the running clothes, and the wind turned the sweat to freezing water on my back. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Sheba!” Sheila said. “Sheba and Sheila—forever!”

“You out running?” Toswiah asked.

“No, I’m riding a horse. Of course I’m running!”

Below us, Sheila was making noises at Sheba. The dog lay down, putting its head on Sheila’s lap. After a moment, she turned onto her back and let Sheila rub her stomach.

“You a big runner back in San Francisco?” Toswiah asked.

I shrugged. “Kind of.”

“I’m gonna go there one day,” she said, looking off. “I’m gonna go see me all the great things about San Francisco.” She turned to Sheila. “We need to mosey, Sheila.”

Sheila got up slowly and wiped off her butt. Sheba looked confused. “I’m gonna go with you!” Sheila said.

Me and Toswiah laughed. I shivered again, then started jogging in place.

“You don’t have to go all the way to San Francisco,” I said. “I can tell you all about it. Be just like you were there.”

Toswiah looked at me, her one eyebrow raised. She stared at me for a long time before she let herself start smiling again. “I’m game to try it that way first. You know—just get my bearings that way before I head on out there.” She nodded.

“I’m
cold!”
Sheila said, pulling on Toswiah’s arm.

“Then come running with me. That’ll warm you up.”

Sheila shook her head and grinned. “No. No. No.” “I feel the same way, Sheila,” Toswiah said. “See you tomorrow, Evie.”

“Yeah,” I said, waving and taking off into a run. Behind me, I could feel them standing there watching me. Could feel Toswiah’s smiling eyes on my back. I sped up, pumping my arms faster—hearing Leigh’s words
Hip to chest with the hands, Spider. Hip to chest.

My body was fluid. My stride felt flawless. In my head, I saw myself in slow motion, running against the cold wind blowing up all around me. Running
hard
against it, into it, through it. And winning. I, Evie/Toswiah Thomas/Green . . . was winning.

23

THIS MORNING MY FATHER SLAMMED HIS BOWL against the floor, picked up a shard of it and jammed it into his wrist, saying that he was ready to die now. It is Monday. The ambulance came a half hour later, long after Mama had wrapped a towel around his arm, holding him down as he fought against her. Anna and I watched it all without moving, Anna’s mouth hanging open, my whole body shaking. There is drying blood by the window. His chair is turned over on its side. We have been standing this way, beside each other, since it happened. My body has stopped shaking but my legs are burning. Now Anna brings his window chair back to the kitchen table. She takes paper towels from the counter, wets them at the sink and starts wiping up the blood. My body is here but my mind isn’t. It left as the glass pierced my father’s skin.

I am weightless. I am fast. I am free.

PART FOUR

24

THE PRINCIPAL WALKED ON THE STAGE AND asked us—no, she told us to all rise for the Pledge of Allegiance. I stood up and placed my hand over my heart. I said the Pledge at the top of my lungs, every word, just as it’s written, clearly and with feeling, the way it’s supposed to be said. Then we sang “America the Beautiful” just like we used to do in Denver before all the Joho stuff hit our family. Mama claims we’ll have life everlasting if we follow the teachings of her Bible. But you know what? I didn’t want life everlasting. I wanted that moment—right there, right then, with everyone’s voice lifting up on
America, America. God shed His grace on thee . . .
I wanted
Now.

Yesterday, I ran into Mira in the hallway.

“Hey Spider,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”

I shrugged. I had missed the first meet. When I left school in the afternoons, I steered clear of the gym. My legs felt heavy these days. Heavy and tight and useless.

“The two hundred,” Mira said. “You would have won easily, girl.” She smiled, looking puzzled. “No more track for you?”

“Nah,” I said. “No more track for me.”

“Too bad, Spider. You with all those legs.” She turned and headed quickly down the hall, but I just stood there. My legs felt like they weighed a ton. My body felt like it weighed even more than that. Lockers slammed around me. Kids laughed and called out to each other. Someone pushed past me then excused herself. Someone dropped a book and got called a dork for doing it. Soon the hall was empty and still.

At night, long after she’s done with her lesson plans, I hear Mama crying. She closes the bathroom door, but the sound leaks through. She turns on the faucet, but her sobs still carry. The doctors say, if things go well, my father will be home in a month or so.

Is he in a straitjacket?
I asked my mother that first night.

No,
Mama said softly.
Of course not.

The hospital is named for one of the apostles. The walls are white. The floors are light gray. My father’s wrist is bandaged. A physical therapist makes him squeeze a tennis ball to get the use of his fingers back. A psychiatrist asks about his life.

When I visit, my father smiles.

Hey my copper penny,
he whispers.
Everything’s going to be all right now.

The medication makes me sleepy,
he says.
But it helps me remember who I used to be.

If the soul is memory, mine has left me. There’s tomorrow and the day after, and when I get there, there isn’t a yesterday anymore. There is each moment that I spend with Daddy—one more that I almost didn’t have.

You run the quarter mile in increments—or splits, as they’re called in track—that first curve, the straightaway, another curve, another straightaway, and then you reach the finish line. Before I started running track, I used to think of the quarter as one long race. But it isn’t. It’s a bunch of little races, split up. Coach calls out your split times and you smile because it was faster than before.

Split by split until the race is over.