Large Animals in Everyday Life (18 page)

Though I'm an adult, I'm in the neatly kept bedroom of my childhood. Nothing has changed—the yellow plaster walls, the single bed with its orange poly-fill bedspread, the lifeless walnut-framed intercom that was built into the wall in the 1950s, before my family moved in. I've been away for many years, far from here and alone, building my life as one would a house, warily, feeling the weight of every brick, lifting and placing each one, seeing the shape of the house rise up in the air before it is visible, before it even exists.

Here, though, nothing has changed. Outside my bedroom door the argument is getting louder and faster, gathering heat, billowing out of control like a fire. My sister, thirty, still lives here, but she's telling my mother and father her plans to leave; she's going to be an actress, an actress, she cries, and they scream back at her,
Don't be ridiculous, you will never make it, never make it, you
are living in a fantasy, a fantasy
. It is earsplitting, liable at any moment to burst through the hollow wood door and into my room, the shouting and running, the furious voices rising and bleating like the cries of animals, the quick heavy footsteps thumping past on the carpeted floorboards, back and forth, advancing and retreating,
I'm going to be an actress, an actress; You are nothing, nothing
. So fierce, so palpable is my mother's anger that I can almost see her through the wall, about to explode in my direction like a small violent man, her fury bigger than her small body, bigger than any of us, swelling and filling the house like smoke and blowing down all the doors. Gingerly, holding my breath so as not to make a sound, I lean over and with one finger press the button in the center of the gold doorknob. The button stays down. I wait. It takes all my concentration to keep her on the other side of that door.

After a while the noise subsides somewhat, the angry voices retreating back behind another door, though one pair of feet still goes slowly back and forth, back and forth, in the hallway outside my room. The feet stop and my doorknob rattles briefly, absently; then they move on. It is not my mother.

In the crack of space under the bottom of the door I see my sister's faded tan mules, their matted fleece, a sad, familiar sign of her disarray. I can picture the rest of her: her short, unwashed, unevenly cut hair, the chipped pink frost on her uneven nails, the worn yellow nightshirt with the peeling, cracking, nearly unrecognizable iron-on of a spotted horse standing on a little patch of ground. Even her step is unrealistic, uneven, irregular. It is as though I can hear the erratic whirring of her mind through the door. She wants to restate her case; if the door were open she wouldn't see me, really, or really know I'm here, she just wants to go over everything again, explain in rational terms her irrational plans, her fantasy, her passionate scenario. She will go to New York, persist long enough, and then make it. She has saved a couple of hundred dollars in her ceramic cocker spaniel bank. She has made tapes of herself singing Helen Reddy songs and
reading dialogue on the GE tape recorder she received for her twelfth birthday. Elated, she will explain all of this, over and over, to my mother, my father, to me, to anyone who will listen. She must keep explaining, she wants to come in my room and keep explaining. I am relieved it is only her, not my mother, but still I don't let her in. I cannot afford to let her in.

Earlier, my parents asked her to audition for them. They were downstairs in the living room, my mother on the couch and my father in his recliner, my sister moving wildly, ungracefully, in the space before them.
Go ahead, show us
, my mother said, her voice heavy with sarcasm, with mockery, and my sister began to act out a scene from
The Wizard of Oz
, cackling in the high, fake voice of the Wicked Witch of the West, spitting out each word, pretending as fiercely as a child.
Oh, this is ridiculous
, my father said, and I could see him turn his head away in scorn and resignation, refusing to watch.
Keep going, we're waiting
, my mother said. My sister crouched and straightened, crouched and straightened, clenching her hands like claws around an imaginary broom, her eyes glassy, her face transported.
Jesus Christ
, my father said. I did not see any of this, but I could picture it well enough. I was upstairs in my room while it was happening, listening to all of it through the door.

Now I attempt to remove old newspaper clippings from the wall over my bed, razoring through brittle Scotch tape with my thumbnail, ripping the paper down and crumpling it in my fist. I stuck these things up there years ago: unfunny Garfield cartoons, photos of actors I loved from the TV page, ads for sandals and tube tops and lip gloss I coveted, items I believed would solve the problem of my body, my face, my life. I would not be ugly, a misfit, I would not be like my sister. The clippings do not come down easily, however. Some tear and come away from their strips of tape, others leave black lines of adhesive and newsprint on the plaster. Bits of tape and my own black fingerprints accumulate like storm clouds on the pale wall. My sister is gone from the hallway, my parents still shut up in their room discussing the
situation, so I run down to the kitchen for a bottle of Windex, trying to move lightly, purposelessly, afraid my own fear and guilt will weigh my footsteps down, make them loud and heavy as thunder in the house. I make it, though, and back in my room I leave the door open, feigning nonchalance, invulnerability.

My sister arrives almost immediately. She comes out of her bedroom, a few feet down the hall from mine, pretending to be only casually strolling by this time, casually stopping.
Do you want to hear my new tape?
she says.
Mommy and Daddy won't listen but it's really good, I know I'm getting better
. She is smoking a cigarette, a Merit, but she is not inhaling, only holding it in a studied way between two fingers, putting it to her mouth and pursing her lips, blowing the invisible smoke away like a child.

I move my hands busily along the wall, picking at tape and keeping up my show of simple, constructive activity.
So I figure Greyhound is the cheapest
, she is saying.
You don't get any meals or anything, but I'm going to take some cheese and crackers and carrot sticks, so I really think it's worth it. I got some Baggies from downstairs, so I don't even have to pay for Baggies. I'm going to take some Kraft singles, too, because they're already past the expiration date, Mommy was going to throw them out this week anyway, there's no way she was going to use the whole package
.

While she has been talking I have reached the section of the wall on which the intercom is built, a dark brown square of shiny burlap framed in lighter brown. The two control knobs can be turned, but the speaker never crackles to life, and neither do the speakers in the other rooms. They only scowl darkly and uselessly on the walls, a testimonial to our family's peculiarity, for I have been to the houses of neighbors, of friends, and none of them have intercoms, not one. I notice the edge of a piece of tape sticking out just below the intercom, but when I try to peel it off my fingers hit something stiff and crinkly on the wall beneath the bottom edge of the speaker's frame. It is not a clipping but a wad of tape stuck there—no, not a wad, but a deliberate
compartment, a small, many-layered cocoon. It comes right off in my hand, and I pick it apart like fruit.

Inside is a miraculous thing. It is money, a couple of dimes and one carefully rolled and folded bill which I can see is a large denomination even before I get it unrolled; the green curlicued design is different, unfamiliar, and a rush of excitement goes through my chest.
140
. I check twice but it's no mistake, the number printed in each corner is 140, it is a hundred-forty-dollar bill—rare and thrilling as an Indian-head penny, a buffalo nickel, a sudden visitation from another time. The memory tugs at me like an itch, like the place where a stain was on a shirt, like a memory of pain: the ghostly outline of myself, a young girl, taping the money to the wall. I can almost see it, almost remember. My ears must have buzzed, my spine locked as I stood there, my fingers fluttering like spiders beneath the frame, not knowing when it would be time, how much I would need when it was finally time to escape. The bill is crisp now in my hand, perfect, unsullied, still waiting. The years between then and now well up, so much hoarding, measuring, guarding—and are at last released, like a tremendous breath.
It's okay
, I cry across the years to her,
it's okay, I made it, you can stop worrying now
.

My sister's attention is on me suddenly, her eyes still blurry, unfocused, peering through the haze of her fantasy. She has stopped talking and is gazing at the money in my hands.
No, no way
, I think.
This is mine, it was always mine, both in the hiding and the finding; the fact that I didn't use it means it's even more mine, for when you don't need something, isn't that when you truly own it, instead of it owning you
?

It would help me
, she says.
It would help me if you gave me that
. Or maybe she doesn't speak the words aloud. It is all around us in the air, coming from every cell of her, she wants the money.

No, no
, I protest silently, but I must answer not only to her, no longer only to her. I apologize, but my apologies are hollow, false as my sister's fantasies, they are nothing.
Ten dollars
, I think
desperately.
Fine, I'll give you ten bucks
. She goes away without comment and I'm left with the money, no longer pure. I hold the bill uncertainly, feeling its diminishment with my fingertips.

My father appears in the doorway next, angry about the mess I've made of the wall. Blue clouds of Windex I've sprayed and forgotten to wipe have stained the plaster, smearing the black gobs of adhesive and shredded paper there and dripping onto my bed.
Jesus
, my father says, and I jump to the mess before he can say anything else, making a show of purposeful though not panicky action.
It looks worse than it is
, I tell him, imitating tones of assurance, and he says,
Well you better get busy
, and I nod
Yes sir
, full of agreement, of sensible industry. I move quickly and try not to think too much, afraid that if I let it enter my mind he will perceive the money in my front jeans pocket, see it glowing there like something charged. He stands just inside the doorway, his hands in his own pockets, watching me scrub the wall with a paper towel in small, efficient circles. I don't glance back at him but after a while sense he is only half watching, half paying attention to my progress. Finally he gives a loud sigh, the last of his annoyance leaving him.
Well
, he says, sounding sheepish, as though he is granting me a great favor,
it's not such a big deal. Frankly, right now, we're a lot more worried about your sister
.

• • •

It is later the same day, almost sunset, and my sister has finally gone out to run some final errand before her trip. Everyone's door is open now. I move through the house in the fading light, feeling oddly weightless, the tension evaporated. A small transistor radio is still going in my sister's room, sending forth the miniature tinny voice of a weatherman. A storm is moving in from the east, he says.
Strange
, I think. Weather never comes in from the east.

My parents sit in their bedroom reading newspapers and keeping up a conversation, their tones smug, deliberately casual.
Now
there's a good question
, my father says, loudly turning over a page.
Does ‘child' have one syllable or two
? I walk by on my way to my sister's room, holding my breath in the second it takes to get past their doorway.
That's an oxymoron
, my mother is saying.
Grown-up child. I bet you didn't know that
.

Safely over the threshold, I let out my breath and shut the door. Clothes and wet towels, half-packed cardboard cartons torn and on their sides, half-eaten convenience store sandwiches and candy bar wrappers, soda cans and potato chip bags and used-up books of matches, half-smoked cigarettes and butts filling coffee cups and aluminum ashtrays—every surface is covered, the floor, the bed, the desk, the nightstand. This is how she has always kept it, this is the wreckage of my sister's room. And everywhere, everywhere, are ashes, gray mounds and smears and clumps rising like anthills, like natural formations in the mess, live embers still burning deep in some of them, threads of smoke snaking up into the air toward the benign face of the ceiling. Here and there on the mounds burn yellow flames the size of pinky fingernails. I spit on my own fingers and go around the room, tamping them out.

I've gotten most of them, stained my fingertips black with ashy slime, when I see the horse—a small white one the size of a cat, tied and standing calmly in a corner near the window. He is not dirty or skinny or sick-looking; he just stands there in a little cleared space, plump and white, turning his head and gazing around the smoky room as though waiting, looking for someone.
Oh
, I cry, moving to untie him. The small red halter is loose and I pull it easily over his head, and he steps back from me.
It's okay, baby
, I say, but he only stands there twitching his tail and looking idly around, unconcerned. I lean over his smooth back to open the window, let in some clean air. The late afternoon sky over our neighbor's patio is yellow and clear, the trees motionless, the fresh air cool and still, entering the room quietly through the window screen.
Are you hungry, are you thirsty
? I ask the horse,
but he is oblivious, picking his way through the clutter, sniffing curiously at this and that. And he has not after all been abandoned, for my sister is still coming back, she hasn't yet left for good.

Still, I feel I must do something.
Hang on
, I tell him.
I'm going to get you something to eat
.