Nearer Than the Sky (27 page)
Read Nearer Than the Sky Online
Authors: T. Greenwood
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Family Life, #Psychological, #General
I sat up and wiped at my eyes, stinging from hot, watery roses. I reached for a towel and pushed it against my eyes to try to make the stinging stop. I opened the window and let the cold air rush in, let the steam slither out. It was still raining outside. I could hear thunder, far away now, but persistent.
I knew before I walked into the quiet kitchen that Benny was gone. I knew before I dropped the towel and pulled on my jeans and sweatshirt and a pair of flip-flops by the door. I knew the way I knew that the storm was almost over. That the sky would become benevolent again.
I let the screen door slam shut behind me. I ran through the rain-drenched field of heavy sunflowers to the woods. I cried as I ran, following the fresh footprints made by Daddy’s gaiters in the wet ground. I let each of my breaths resound like thunder in my chest as I reached the clearing and the train tracks.
JULY 28, 1978. Mountainview, Arizona.
Here is Benny. Stumbling down the embankment to the spot where he’d left his flannel shirt hanging on a limb. Reaching into the pocket for the butterfly. He would leave it on Lily’s pillow so that when she came home from the hospital it would be there, waiting for her with silver wings. He is careful not to crush it when he puts it back into his pocket and puts his shirt on. It isn’t raining so hard anymore. It feels good on his neck and his hands. He climbs back up the embankment and walks along the road until it is safe to cross. And then he runs as fast as he can across the pavement. At the tracks he kneels to the ground and listens for the train. But it is only distant thunder that he hears. He presses his ear harder to make sure. Distant thunder, the passing storm. It is quiet. Only the sounds of his breathing. The sounds of the moth’s wings beating against his chest. And so he crosses the tracks, careful not to slip and fall. The light coming toward him could only be the sun emerging from the darkness of the stormy sky. The whistle, only wind through the trees. The rumble of the train only thunder beneath his feet. And then it is quiet. Not a sound. Not even a breathing sound.
Here is Benny. Stumbling down the embankment to the spot where he’d left his flannel shirt hanging on a limb. Reaching into the pocket for the butterfly. He would leave it on Lily’s pillow so that when she came home from the hospital it would be there, waiting for her with silver wings. He is careful not to crush it when he puts it back into his pocket and puts his shirt on. It isn’t raining so hard anymore. It feels good on his neck and his hands. He climbs back up the embankment and walks along the road until it is safe to cross. And then he runs as fast as he can across the pavement. At the tracks he kneels to the ground and listens for the train. But it is only distant thunder that he hears. He presses his ear harder to make sure. Distant thunder, the passing storm. It is quiet. Only the sounds of his breathing. The sounds of the moth’s wings beating against his chest. And so he crosses the tracks, careful not to slip and fall. The light coming toward him could only be the sun emerging from the darkness of the stormy sky. The whistle, only wind through the trees. The rumble of the train only thunder beneath his feet. And then it is quiet. Not a sound. Not even a breathing sound.
After Benny was gone, I found the photographs that he and I had taken in the photo booth crumpled in a pocket. In the first photo, Benny’s face was a blur. In the second, he was completely missing from the picture. I lament the lost photo, the one that fluttered down from the top of the Ferris wheel. But it’s rare that there is clarity in recollection. Most memories are like the blurred photo of Benny’s face. Moments of bright light are rare and precious. This is what the lightning taught me.
I
t was cold and sunny and the streets were filled with people loaded down with shopping bags. Esmé ran ahead of Peter and me, peering into windows. She had a Christmas Club account this year into which she’d been putting five dollars a week. She clutched a brightly colored envelope filled with her savings. Peter and I always go shopping the weekend after Thanksgiving. Usually we are in Bar Harbor with his family, and I wind up bringing home bags full of tacky souvenirs: ladies made of seashells, rubber lobsters, music boxes with decals that say
Bah Hahba.
But this year we took Esmé into town. She thought this was perfectly wonderful; Bar Harbor was about as thrilling to her as going to the dentist, she said. We took her to the places we knew she would love: the stained-glass store, a vintage clothing shop, the bookstore. When it was time for lunch we decided to go to the Swan so that she could see Joe. She rushed into the kitchen as soon as we walked in, Peter went down to the office to pick up some paperwork to work on later, and I picked out a table for us near the window, facing the busy street.
t was cold and sunny and the streets were filled with people loaded down with shopping bags. Esmé ran ahead of Peter and me, peering into windows. She had a Christmas Club account this year into which she’d been putting five dollars a week. She clutched a brightly colored envelope filled with her savings. Peter and I always go shopping the weekend after Thanksgiving. Usually we are in Bar Harbor with his family, and I wind up bringing home bags full of tacky souvenirs: ladies made of seashells, rubber lobsters, music boxes with decals that say
Bah Hahba.
But this year we took Esmé into town. She thought this was perfectly wonderful; Bar Harbor was about as thrilling to her as going to the dentist, she said. We took her to the places we knew she would love: the stained-glass store, a vintage clothing shop, the bookstore. When it was time for lunch we decided to go to the Swan so that she could see Joe. She rushed into the kitchen as soon as we walked in, Peter went down to the office to pick up some paperwork to work on later, and I picked out a table for us near the window, facing the busy street.
I stared out the window at the streets filled with Christmastime. It was warm in the café. I took off my coat and went to check out the specials on the chalkboard.
“Hi Indie,” Julia said. She was one of those few employees who lived in town and got stuck working through the holidays when all of the students went home. She was wearing a bright red-and-green sweater and had a sprig of holly in her hair.
“Hi,” I smiled. “What’s good today?”
She leaned across the counter and said, “Don’t get the minestrone. Joe went crazy with the cloves.”
“I heard that,” Joe hollered from the kitchen.
“Can I get a bowl of cheddar broccoli soup and an onion roll?”
“The minestrone is perfectly fine,” Joe shouted.
I’d seen his bike out front this morning. The dusting of snow hadn’t stopped his daily trek.
I brought the soup and roll back to the table. Peter and Esmé joined me with steaming plates of Joe’s white lasagna: spinach and Alfredo sauce with three kinds of cheese. Peter brought a bottle of wine from the walk-in and we drank the whole thing. We had rum cake for dessert and Esmé announced that she wanted to go back to the bookstore to look for a Christmas present for her roommate. “You guys stay here,” she said. “Indie looks like she’s ready to drop.”
It was true. Though the cold had subsided, I was still tired.
“What’s playing today?” I asked.
“What do you feel like?” Peter smiled and reached for my hand. It was the first time we’d touched in days.
“How about
Roman Holiday
?” I said.
Roman Holiday
?” I said.
There were a few people in the theater, mostly husbands taking breaks from their shopping wives. Peter and I sat in the back in two chairs we’d found at an antique store in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The stuffing was coming out of the arms, but they were the two most comfortable seats in the theater.
I have always loved this movie. I like the idea of a princess trying to be a normal girl for a day; usually it’s the other way around. I suppose everyone needs to escape their lives sometimes. To pretend they’re something they’re not. Even princesses.
Peter held my hand through the whole movie, stroking the space between my index finger and thumb.
Esmé was in the café having a beer with Joe when the movie finished. Outside the sun had set and the trees lining the street were laced with sparkling white lights. The flower store across the street had put up their obnoxious electronic Chipmunks display. Their squeaky voices sang Christmas carols at high speed. The restaurant was empty and Julia was putting the chairs up on the tables to mop the floors.
“Closing early tonight?” I asked.
Peter nodded. “Everybody go home and get some rest. Christmas season has officially started and there will be no rest for anyone from now until New Year’s. Wanna beer, Indie?”
“Sure,” I said. He brought a six-pack out of the walk-in and set it down on the table.
Joe opened up the beers with a bottle opener from his apron pocket and Esmé made a toast.
“To breaking tradition,” she said. “This beats the hell out of Mom’s mulled wine.”
“Hear, hear,” Peter said.
I had to agree. Peter and Esmé’s mom had a tradition of hot and spicy wine that I’d never quite taken to.
Peter leaned over and kissed me and my cheeks felt hot.
This is home,
I thought.
This is mine. Not borrowed. I made this.
This is home,
I thought.
This is mine. Not borrowed. I made this.
Peter had locked the front door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. A few people came by, checked their watches, and peered through the glass. Normally Peter would have let them in, but today was a holiday of sorts. He merely shrugged and smiled, waving at them through the glass. When a man so bundled up it looked like he was carrying blankets under his coat came to the door, I figured Peter would do the same. The man tried the door and when he realized it was locked, he began to pound on the glass. Around him snow was starting to fall in thick white flakes. His shoulders and hood were covered with it. But instead of smiling apologetically and waving him away, Peter stood up and went to the door.
“Tell him we’re closed,” Julia sighed. She’d seen Peter let in tired and cold people long after closing too many times.
But Peter reached into his pocket and quickly unlocked the door. When the door opened and the man stepped in, I could see that it wasn’t blankets he was carrying inside his coat. It was a baby.
“Rich,” I said, my heart catching in my throat. “My God.”
L
ATE
N
OVEMBER
, 1999. Phoenix, Arizona.
Lily Hughes of Phoenix, AZ, after months of denial, has finally admitted to repeatedly smothering her nine-month-old infant, Violet Hughes. After an extensive phone conversation with her estranged sister, Miranda Brown of Echo Hollow, Maine, Mrs. Hughes was allegedly discovered by her husband, Richard Hughes, late on Thanksgiving night (midnight-dark night) in the child’s cold nursery, holding a pillow over the infant’s face. When confronted by her husband, Mrs. Brown is reported to have stared at her hands in disbelief as if they did not belong to her. As if they were not her hands at all. But soon, they became familiar again, and she held them to her face, whispering, “Save her,” or “Take her. ” It could have been either request, she said it so softly. It could have been, “Blame her.” In her nightgown, she looked small and scared. A girl offering a woman’s apologies.
ATE
N
OVEMBER
, 1999. Phoenix, Arizona.
Lily Hughes of Phoenix, AZ, after months of denial, has finally admitted to repeatedly smothering her nine-month-old infant, Violet Hughes. After an extensive phone conversation with her estranged sister, Miranda Brown of Echo Hollow, Maine, Mrs. Hughes was allegedly discovered by her husband, Richard Hughes, late on Thanksgiving night (midnight-dark night) in the child’s cold nursery, holding a pillow over the infant’s face. When confronted by her husband, Mrs. Brown is reported to have stared at her hands in disbelief as if they did not belong to her. As if they were not her hands at all. But soon, they became familiar again, and she held them to her face, whispering, “Save her,” or “Take her. ” It could have been either request, she said it so softly. It could have been, “Blame her.” In her nightgown, she looked small and scared. A girl offering a woman’s apologies.
I
understand lightning. I’m not afraid when the sky opens up and blinds my eyes with rain. I am not afraid of its white fingers. Of its electrical kiss. I have an agreement with the sky. An understanding.
understand lightning. I’m not afraid when the sky opens up and blinds my eyes with rain. I am not afraid of its white fingers. Of its electrical kiss. I have an agreement with the sky. An understanding.
After Benny was gone, after the train, I learned to dance for rain. In the backyard junkyard playground behind our house, I stomped my feet, demanding that the sky show me the sympathy of a storm. I wore Benny’s headdress and willed my feet to remember the moccasin movements of the field trip, Indian tribal dances in the junior high school auditorium. I braided my black hair into the braids of my imagined Indian mother and painted my face with lipstick signs of who I should have been. I made circles around the rusty swing set, making red clouds of dust, crying in the voice of my imaginary ancestors. And soon enough, the sky answered back with thunderous apologies. Clouds first blinded and then strangled the sun. When the rain came, and the first streak of light divided the sky, I held my arms out and spun. My bare brown legs were wet and cold. Rain pooled in my open mouth, filling my throat and eyes. Then, the sky opened up and showed me its insides. I stared into its belly and touched the light.
Daddy found me in the field of sunflowers, curled up and wet, the feathers of Benny’s headdress stuck to my skin like a strange crimson bird’s. He picked me up in his arms and carried me back into the house, stroked my wet hair with his fingers and didn’t ask why. Perhaps he knew that lightning wrote words to explain that only I could read. That the electric story it told was more vivid and real than any story anybody could make up to explain.
P
eter got up at three o’clock to go to work. It felt strange to be back inside our old routine. I listened with my eyes closed to the almost forgotten sounds of his waking. The creak of springs beneath him as he sat up and turned on the small lamp on the night table. The silence of waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. The swish of jeans being pulled on, socks, and the woolly scratch of a sweater unfolding. When he sat back down and then lay down next to me, I could smell the woods in him. In his clothes, in his skin, and in his breath.
eter got up at three o’clock to go to work. It felt strange to be back inside our old routine. I listened with my eyes closed to the almost forgotten sounds of his waking. The creak of springs beneath him as he sat up and turned on the small lamp on the night table. The silence of waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. The swish of jeans being pulled on, socks, and the woolly scratch of a sweater unfolding. When he sat back down and then lay down next to me, I could smell the woods in him. In his clothes, in his skin, and in his breath.
“I love you,” he whispered. Words that tasted like pine. His arms folded around me like wings. I pulled his wrists to make him hold on tighter.
“Do you mind?” I asked. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Promise,” he said, his words getting tangled in my hair.
It would only be for a week or two, just long enough for Rich to get settled into his brother’s place in Boston. Rich’s brother ran the East Coast division of their dad’s construction company. He told Rich he could do work for him out of their home. That way he could be with Violet. That way he could keep an eye on her all the time.
After Peter left, I got up and tiptoed into the living room, where Rich and Violet were still sleeping. Peter had stoked the fire to keep them warm. I stood with my back to the woodstove and let the warmth penetrate my flannel pajamas. Outside, the sky was still completely dark. Moonless, starless, a prelude to snow.
Violet was snoring softly, lying on her back with her arms raised over her head in the crib we had assembled the night before. The white blanket I’d found in a box marked
Bedding
was at her feet, probably thrown off soon after Peter put another log on the fire. Rich was sleeping similarly, his arms thrown over his head, his mouth slightly open. He was too long for the couch, and his feet stuck out from under the heavy quilt. He would be sore when he finally woke. His back might bother him all day. But now, everything was peaceful. Still.
Bedding
was at her feet, probably thrown off soon after Peter put another log on the fire. Rich was sleeping similarly, his arms thrown over his head, his mouth slightly open. He was too long for the couch, and his feet stuck out from under the heavy quilt. He would be sore when he finally woke. His back might bother him all day. But now, everything was peaceful. Still.
In the kitchen, the coffeepot was still hot. I poured a cup of coffee and looked at Violet’s things stacked on the kitchen table. Boxes carefully labeled
Onesies, Pajamas, Diapers, Toys.
Her car seat and playpen on the floor. A stroller and a puffy pink baby bag. Boxes of bottles and cases of formula.
Onesies, Pajamas, Diapers, Toys.
Her car seat and playpen on the floor. A stroller and a puffy pink baby bag. Boxes of bottles and cases of formula.
I imagined Rich like the woman who begins hiding the change from the grocery bill in a secret drawer. Who packs a suitcase with a week’s worth of clothing, underwear, and shoes. Who practices crawling out of bed and walking to the front door while her husband lies sleeping, his fingers still clenched into fists. Waiting until he strikes again before she makes the trip for real. He must have been ready for this. He must have known all along that it would happen again.
And I imagined Lily waking to find that he was gone. I imagined her listening for the sounds of anything besides the hum of the air conditioner, besides the sound of her own breaths. But like the man whose wife finally leaves, Lily must also have known that he was planning his escape. Because the expression on her face is not one of surprise, of astonishment. Remarkably, it looks strangely like relief.
It was Violet who woke first. I could hear her stuttered breath, the first soft sobs of hunger. And then Rich was in the kitchen heating formula in a saucepan, wiping sleep from his eyes.
I made buckwheat pancakes from a mix that Peter put together and left for me, labeled with instructions, in the fridge. Rich ate hungrily, as if fueling his body for a marathon. With one hand he shoveled the thick brown cakes into his mouth. With the other he held on to Violet.
When it began to snow he looked out the window, scowling. “I haven’t got snow tires or anything,” he said. “I should probably head out soon.”
I nodded, and he offered me Violet. I took her, surprised by how heavy her small body was. I held her against my chest, her head instinctively resting on my shoulder.
Outside Rich checked the bungee cords holding his things to the roof of the car. He scraped ice off the windshield and started the engine. Exhaust rose in white sighs into the morning air. The sky was filled with snow clouds, making everything white.
Rich stood in the doorway of the cabin, reluctant to let go of Violet’s small finger. His face was tired, but easy. Relieved.
“Are you sure this is okay?” he asked again.
“Go,” I said. “We’ll take good care of her.”
“I’ll call when I get to Boston,” he said, releasing his grasp. “It shouldn’t take me more than a week to get settled in. If you need me, my brother’s phone number is on the list. So is his work number. I’ll keep the car phone on, too. That’s probably the best way to find me.”
“Don’t worry,” I said again. “She’ll be fine here.”
“I know,” Rich said, pulling his coat on and sticking his hands in his pockets. “Thank you.”
I closed the door after I couldn’t see Rich’s headlights through the trees anymore. I shivered from the chill that had found its way into the warm cabin. It didn’t take long. Winter can sometimes penetrate even the thickest walls.
I carried Violet into the living room where Peter’s fire crackled hot inside the cast-iron stove. I laid her down in her crib and went to the phone in the kitchen to call Lily. Rich had asked me to. He knew, like I knew, that she was too weak to argue. She had inherited a lot of things from Ma, but not her tenacity. Lily knew how to let go. When I thought of the words I would say to Lily, I thought
don’t worry, safe,
and
take care.
I also thought
sorry.
I also thought
forgive.
But when she answered the phone, I had lost all the good words.
don’t worry, safe,
and
take care.
I also thought
sorry.
I also thought
forgive.
But when she answered the phone, I had lost all the good words.
“It’s me,” I said.
I could hear her breathing, but she didn’t speak.
“Violet’s here . . . Rich wanted me to tell you. . . .”
Silence.
“Lily, he wants you to know . . . he wanted me to tell you that he loves you, but he’s afraid.... He’s afraid for Violet. Maybe if you see someone, maybe if you can get better . . .”
Her voice was soft, like a child’s, but it startled me. “After Benny died she stopped, you know.”
I nodded, closing my eyes.
“And I felt like she didn’t love me anymore. Sometimes she’d go days without even talking to me. Without touching me. All that sadness in our house. Remember?”
I remembered. We held on to that sorrow. We clung to it. It defined us.
“I felt invisible.”
This was something I could understand, this imprecise invisibility. The gossamer feeling of childhood mornings when Ma could walk past my open bedroom door and not remember I was lying there, waiting to be woken. The footstep stutter of remembrance and then the knock,
Up, Indie,
and the empty sound of her feet on the floor moving away from me. How could Lily know this transparency? Was it possible she, too, had felt like a clear windowpane at the moment a bird breaks its wings or neck against it?
Up, Indie,
and the empty sound of her feet on the floor moving away from me. How could Lily know this transparency? Was it possible she, too, had felt like a clear windowpane at the moment a bird breaks its wings or neck against it?
“Indie, she was the only thing I ever had. That belonged to me. You had Benny, and I had Ma. But when Benny died, I lost her too. And I hated you for what happened to Benny. I hated you for leaving him alone.”
“It was Ma that left us alone, it wasn’t
me,
” I said, my throat aching. And I realized for the first time that it
wasn’t
my fault. It never had been.
me,
” I said, my throat aching. And I realized for the first time that it
wasn’t
my fault. It never had been.
“Listen,”
she said louder. “I hated
myself.
I hated myself, and then I hated Ma.”
she said louder. “I hated
myself.
I hated myself, and then I hated Ma.”
I looked at Violet sleeping in the crib.
“I knew I would be a terrible mother,” she said. “But Rich insisted. He wanted a big family. Like his. I told him I wouldn’t know what to do with a baby. I told him.” She was crying now.
And I thought of the way Peter once touched my stomach when I told him I was late, his eyes wide with forbidden hope, and how his expression changed when I pushed his hand away. Her fears were no different than mine.
“It’s good,” she said, her voice stronger, more certain now. “What he’s done.”
Violet stirred in the other room.
“What can I do?” I asked. And for the first time, in a long time, I felt purposeful. Like I had something important to do. I felt needed.
Lily paused and then whispered, “Please tell Violet that I love her. That I’m going to get better. That I promise.”
I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut to keep my own tears from escaping. This was an apology; this was
sorry.
Here were the words Ma never said.
sorry.
Here were the words Ma never said.
After I hung up the phone, I went to Violet’s crib and picked her up. I sat down on the couch with her, carefully, and curled my feet under the quilt that, remarkably, still held the warmth of Rich’s sleep. She wriggled in my arms, pulling her head back to look at me. I held her out so that she could see me, and she opened her eyes wide. I could see Lily in her face. She was in the small bones of her nose. In the depth of blue in her eyes.
“Hi,” I said.
She looked at me and thrust her head and body forward. She fell into my chest and rested her head against my neck. I pulled my hair away from her face and leaned back. Soon her body relaxed and became heavier. She was sprawled across my chest, sleeping. She didn’t stir, even when I uncurled my legs and stretched them out in front of me. She only held on to my hair with her fists and breathed slowly into my shoulder.
The phone rang, and I knew it must be Peter calling to make sure everything was okay. I could see him in the kitchen waiting for me to answer. Tasting the beef barley soup that Joe made every Sunday in winter. He might think I was sleeping. He might think we’d taken a walk. But he wouldn’t worry, and that’s why I loved him. Because he really did trust that I could take care of myself. That I was safe alone. I let the phone ring. I didn’t want to disturb Violet’s deep slumber. I would call him later and ask him to bring some of the soup home for dinner.
A
LMOST WINTER
. Echo Hollow, Maine.
Outside, the sky slowly fills with light, the bright white light that accompanies snow. A gentle offering from the sky this time. White light illuminating a child’s fair skin and the instinctive circular motions of my hands on her back. And the story I tell her begins after the Wolf has come to the village. After he has come and just as easily gone. When all that’s left to do is to mend things broken, to return things stolen, and to forgive.
LMOST WINTER
. Echo Hollow, Maine.
Outside, the sky slowly fills with light, the bright white light that accompanies snow. A gentle offering from the sky this time. White light illuminating a child’s fair skin and the instinctive circular motions of my hands on her back. And the story I tell her begins after the Wolf has come to the village. After he has come and just as easily gone. When all that’s left to do is to mend things broken, to return things stolen, and to forgive.
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