by Traci Moore
October’s come and the sky’s frowning like my fussy daughter. Just Thursday, rain snuck under the kitchen door, then punched my whites off the clothesline and pounded them in the mud. Thanks to the cruddy weather, Candy and I’ll have to drive Arthur’s truck to Myrna’s Stitch-n-Sew. There they sell fabrics, notions, and dresses the mannequins wear to show off Butterick patterns nobody can figure out. I don’t care much for the place—too big and disorderly for me—but I go when I need discount dresses. Right now, there’s no want in that need. Every dress of mine’s so beat up the cotton’s gone either whitish-pink or whitish-yellow or whitish-blue. So I’m buying dresses today. Even though it still burns me how they treated us there last week.
…..I was stuck in the dressing room with my slip over my head when I heard my fool daughter squealing like a pig. The stout black lady, Sylvia, who cuts fabric in the back, ran up to my door, shouting like the store was on fire. She said Candy had pulled a few bolts of gingham off the rack and started rolling herself in the fabric. I couldn’t do much but say, ‘Good lord!’ and ‘Be right there!’ Even so, Sylvia gave a big humph!–like the world was ending–and marched off.
…..When I rushed out of the dressing room and started tidying things up, over came Sylvia. That woman had the nerve to give me a lecture on a mother’s responsibility. Well. My blood just about boiled.
…..Since birth twelve years ago, Candy’s been slow: slow to walk, slow to use the potty, slow to figure out the stairs. Didn’t talk until she was five. On her eighth birthday I gave her some yarn and hole-punched paper plates. For days she sat like a loony bird and wove her fool head off. Of course Arthur and I smiled and said thank you for all the junk she made us, but when I heard giggling one afternoon and found every chair and lamp and table strung together in the den, I packed up my yarn and hopes of Candy ever being normal.
…..Now we’re stuck with a kid who’s got the body of a pre-teen and the smarts of a bar of soap.
Momma says books are no good for kids like me. That my brain oughta take its time. A secret I know that Momma doesn’t is my cousin, Irene—she reads Nancy Drews—gives me handy-down kid books. They get hid under my bed until I read them all.
…..There’s no kid books at Myrna’s but I like it there because Miss Sylvia’s my secret hard-of-hearing friend. She lets me put my hands in the thimble box and once I got to line up zippers biggest to smallest. Also we talk about measuring. Momma doesn’t like Miss Sylvia being my friend because she says real friends have to be younger than you. For instance Katie Goodenough.
…..Katie’s six and I’m twelve and we play Barbies. I like her all right and she likes me even if Harry Fenton said my brain’s broke and that I need a lobotomy, which I don’t know what that is, but it seems not nice. At least Dad and Irene and Katie and Sylvia don’t say I’m broke.
…..My umbrella got broke because Momma threw it against the wall. I made muddy footprint accidents on the kitchen floor and Momma yelled real loud NO MUCKING AROUND IN THE YARD WHEN IT RAINS. Mud is practically her worst thing. Always she wants stuff clean and proper.
…..Right now Momma hollers at me from downstairs. Her keys jingle-jangle. She’s buying me an Almond Joy if I do a trick on Miss Sylvia that Momma says is for her own good. A secret I know that Momma doesn’t is that it’s not a funny trick. It’s naughty. And Harry Fenton said naughty people get thrown in the slammer, which is jail where giant rats eat your eyes out while you’re sleeping. That means this time I don’t want candy or going to Myrna’s with Momma. At. All.
Candy had her thumb stuck clear in her mouth. Wouldn’t come out from under that fool bed, even after I gave her what for. Said her stomach’s upset. Well. I’m giving her a few minutes, because truth is, ever since my brother, Oren, puked on my shoes at the fair—too many Cokes and corndogs before the Tilt-A-Whirl—I’ve had a terrible bad fear of throw-up.
…..I sit in Arthur’s chair and wait. Rain bangs on the roof and spots up the windows. For no reason, that dopey cat goes zigzagging hell-bent-for-leather around the house. I should go do another load of laundry or at least brown the pot roast for when Arthur gets home.
…..Arthur’s worked twenty-two years at Petersen’s Plumbing and Drain. Even in the rain, he’d rather set up hose faucets and lay new pipes in trenches dug with a noisy machine than mess with old toilets no hardware store has parts for. What plumber wants to snake a clogged kitchen line and come home smelling like a worm? Not my husband.
…..Aside from plumbing, Arthur’s crazy about Candy. Can’t stop talking about her. Can’t stop praising her for the silly pictures she draws or the dances she makes up. When we three walk around town, he’ll go on about Candy to just about anyone he meets. Those people just smile to act polite.
…..Candy and I don’t get along like we used to, seeing as puberty’s started up. With the mixed-up way she is, she’ll never be ready for the birds and bees talk. Heck if I know what she’s ready for. Though Arthur says she’ll catch up, I’m about out of hope.
…..The wall clock says quarter to three. Time to get Candy into the truck. No more monkey business. As I climb up the stairs, I start thinking about the smile on Arthur’s face when he sees my colorful new dresses.
Again Momma knocks on my door, but I keep quiet. I want to jump out my window and hide in the bushes. Then dig in the sludge a while and make real good mud pies. Not until a month of Sundays could somebody find me.
…..“Honey bear,” says Momma from the hallway, “how ‘bout some apple bake? Or… sliced peaches?” I don’t say a thing. “Sweet’ll make your belly better…”
…..My belly doesn’t want sweet stuff or Momma right now. Something inside me feels the same as when I swallowed the marbles. I laid on my bed a while and felt them roll around like roller coasters inside my guts. For days and days they hurt and gurgled but praise the lord a while later I pooped them out.
…..“Honey bear,” calls Momma, “come on down already!”
…..I close my eyes tight. When I open them, my room’s still green stripes. My stuffed bears still look at me. My stomach still says no-no-no, but I go downstairs anyhow.
…..In the kitchen I eat the peaches extra slow. Momma watches me out the corner of her eye. She smiles real big as I finish. I scrinch up my face when she wipes my mouth with that stinky dishrag.
…..The truck ride is bumpy and sloshy. I could tell Leon wanted me to bring him, but Momma said he hates rain and he would for sure barf or do loud cat yowls. But Leon’s my pal who makes me less scared of what’s next.
…..Momma says hot dang when she sees the OPEN sign at Myrna’s. She has on a big smile and I don’t. I want to go feel the giant rolls of fur they make monster costumes out of for Halloween, but Momma yanks me by the hand and we head to the back. There’s Miss Sylvia laughing and folding up checked material for a lady with tall hair. Momma leans her head quick toward the ribbon aisle and looks at me with big eyes. Then she walks away. I watch how she brushes by a bunch of material with her fingers.
…..The ribbons on rolls are soft, shiny and all colors. I like them so I stand there a while feeling their slippery snake tongues. Next in line is the opposite of ribbons: Velcro, which is black and itchy. Then I see buttons. Buttons I love. There’s so many I like touching: wooden ones, triangle ones, pearly ones, big fat ones for coats, bright ladybug ones. Buttons are my favorite thing in Myrna’s because they can let stuff open and close, real quiet.
…..After buttons are boxes of needles to stitch with and pins with balls on the ends but I pass on by because they’re just pointy and boring. Clothespins are the only pins I like because they don’t poke. At first they feel all right pinching on my fingers or lips or nose. Until a while later they start hurting real bad or I can’t breathe so I pull them off. There’s no clothespins at Myrna’s. Only Momma’s clothesline.
…..I turn around and see Momma looking up close at a big picture book, like it’s the most interesting thing ever that has been. But a secret I know is that ladies do real-looking things for fake on TV. Sure, actresses look pretty and happy, Momma said, but they’re really just ugly and bored.
…..When I get to the pillow fuzz aisle, my stomach starts shouting Uh-oh! Warning! I want to crawl under the sewing machines, but Momma’ll get steamed. So I walk more along the floor that’s sparrow’s-egg-speckled until I get to the scissors aisle. Scissors are Miss Sylvia’s big, important things. Hers are shiny and I think made of true gold. They make good clip-clip-clip sounds when she cuts materials in extra straight lines. Her table is where Momma said for me to do the trick I think is naughty for Miss Sylvia’s own good.
…..The scissors are right there on the shelf. Boy, oh boy. Some ones are in plastic cases and some ones are in brown boxes with pictures on the front. On racks hang ones that are small and will fit in my purse Momma said to bring. My hand is shaky when I take two scissors off the rack. I hook one on each hand and practice going snip-snip-snip, but they sound sort of scary. One hand doesn’t snip quick as the other. That scissors falls and the point pokes into my foot and I say, “OLP!” Momma’s eyes are on me like fire swords so I pick up the scissors and unsnap my purse. That’s when a man’s voice comes up and says, “Um-hummm. What we got here?”
…..My stomach starts doing jumping jacks. I turn around. The man’s forehead is a mile high and shiny. He smells like cough drops and pencils.
…..“Better put those back,” he says. On his nametag there’s the words OLIVER TURNBULL, MANAGER. “Bet a girl like you wants to go to college some day.”
…..I don’t know if that’s funny or mean. He smiles in a flat line before looking real quick at the front of my training bra. His gut is bigger than Uncle Roger’s.
…..I put the scissors on the shelf real slow. My hand’s shaky. Then I look down at my hurt foot. There’s a red dot bubbling up through my sock.
…..“We’ll have to tell your mother about your shenanigans,” says Oliver Turnbull.
…..I point to where Momma stands and looks under a dummy’s skirt. The man makes a funny face and we start walking. He pokes his big pointer finger like a gun in my back. When we get to where Momma’s standing, she drops the material real fast. She frowns at me quick before she looks at Oliver Turnbull with big eyes. I stare at my foot. The red dot’s getting bigger.
…..“This your daughter?” Oliver says.
…..“What’s she done?” Momma says.
…..“Petty crime. Caught her shoving scissors in her pocketbook.”
…..Some lady shoppers stare hard at us. They are frozen and not making sounds.
…..“Well,” Momma says, “any fool can tell my daughter’s a retard. Obviously she’s not responsible.”
…..Oliver Turnbull makes a flat line smile again. He puts his hands in his pockets and swishes his coins around.
…..“Making up excuses for your kid won’t wash with me, ma’am.”
…..Momma shows her teeth like Leon when he has to get his claws clipped. “Look here, Mister!” She points her finger up close to Oliver’s nose. “You got NO idea what it’s like to teach a slow kid right from wrong. Near impossible!”
…..They keep talking louder and louder but my gut wants me to lay down on the cool, cool floor. Momma’s face is getting pinkish and she doesn’t look at me. Oliver Turnbull squishes his fists tight. Out of his mouth comes a naughty word I can’t say.
…..Real slow, I walk backwards to find Miss Sylvia. I walk and walk and somehow get across without bumping things. Miss Sylvia is rolling up purple material at her table.
…..“Hi there, Candy. You OK?”
…..I shake my head because my voice can’t talk. She looks where I point and her mouth makes an ‘O’.
…..“Heaven sake. What’s this?”
…..“Uh.”
…..“What you say?”
…..“Him and Momma’re real mad. I feel sick. Where’s a bathroom?” I forget to talk slow and loud.
…..“Hold your shirt, girl.” Miss Sylvia reaches around her ear and fiddles with her little tan hearing box that makes something squeal real loud a while. She laughs. “OK. Let’s try again.”
…..That’s when Momma walks up beside me. She says in a not friendly voice, “Time to leave. C’mon.” Her face is scrunched all mad the same as when she burnt up the meatloaf. She pinches my arm which I know means NOW. All the sudden my stomach’s a washing machine.
…..We pass Oliver Turnbull whacking his hand with a yardstick. “Oh, and ma’am?” he says, “Don’t come shopping here again.”
…..Momma shouts over her shoulder, “Store’s been going downhill since 1978.”
…..On the sparrow’s-egg speckles my shoes squeak. I don’t know if what’s in my stomach will stay there. The red spot on my foot is right there, crying out to be helped. I turn my head to see Sylvia. Her mouth is still like an ‘O’.
…..Outside there’s a whole lot of cold and rain. My mouth gets too watery. Wind pushes on our backs while Momma and I scoot around rain puddles. I do a burp that burbles by accident out of my stomach and makes a whole lot of orange barf onto the parking lot. Some splashes Momma’s leg which makes her scream and run away. More and more barf comes out and out. The truck door bangs shut. When my stomach stops, a skinny man drives by me slow and stares.
…..I barfed down my pink shirt and forgot my purse on a shelf which Momma will be very mad at. The puddle I made has swirly orange and clear bits. It’s gross and my tongue tastes scratchy but my stomach is now saying thank you, real gentle.
…..Walking through puddles to the truck makes my shoes go squish-squash. Momma looks not happy through the window. Her eyes are crying. She is frowning and shakes her head a few times at me. The door handle doesn’t open when I push it so I stand in the rain which gets my barfed-on hair and barfed-on shirt more wet. I’m real cold. Crying starts filling up my eyes. I knock again on the window but Momma just looks at the rained-on parking lot.
…..A while later the door lock unclicks. When I open the door it makes a creaky sound. The truck seat is cold. Momma is rubbing her pink nose. The whole ride home we stay closed and quiet as buttons.
It’s freezing in this truck. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight they’re almost numb. Even with the windows down, the stench could kill a skunk. All I want is getting home, getting my hands on a bar of soap, and getting this girl washed up.
…..I can’t look at Candy. I don’t know whether to hang her from a tree or hug her. Plain and simple, this child is mixed up. It’s high time me and Arthur have a hard talk about what to do with her.
Momma’s says when we get home out of those clothes and hit the tub. Which is okay because under bubbles I can close my eyes and soak out all the yuck things about the day.
…..After I get dry I put on different and warm clothes and go downstairs.
…..Dad’s at the kitchen table. He has his tools and his broken lamp parts all dumped out around him. A while ago I turned the lamp switch the wrong way and it busted. When I said sorry, Dad put his hand I call a bear paw on my head. He said no sweat, your pop can fix anything and Momma said what an idiot thing to do four times. I counted.
…..Dad chews on a toothpick that sticks out of his mouth at the corner. He looks at me. Momma’s standing behind him with her hands on her hips.
…..“Show Daddy your foot,” says Momma.
…..Dad’s eyebrows rise up. He looks weird holding the screwdriver like he’s gonna eat dinner with it. I sit in a chair and point my toes on his knee. The little dot’s a small pink circle now. Dad puts his screwdriver down. His hands go bent around my toes, as if he wants to make them warm. His mouth opens and closes and opens like a baby bird except for no peep comes out for a while.
…..“Scissors, huh?” he says. “What you want them for? Shoot. We already got a hundred and nineteen pairs!” He goes ho-ho-ho like Santa.
…..Momma’s eyes are squinting hard at me.
…..Dad says, “What’s the story, morning glory?”
…..I don’t know how to tell a story.
…..He says, “You really a thief?”
…..The pink dot on my foot says no-no-no.
…..“Ummmm.”
…..“Well?”
…..I look at the pink dot. It doesn’t say anything else. So I start to tell Dad what happened with nothing missing. I say Momma said to stick out my tongue at Miss Sylvia and then take some scissors and go snip-snip-snip into Miss Sylvia’s material. Also I say about the Almond Joy Momma would get me if I did that naughty trick, but I broke the trick because I dropped the scissors. Best of all, I tell how everything went good because there’s no rats or slammer for me.
…..Dad’s eyes get real big.
…..Momma’s face is red. She’s shaking her head and her angry teeth are showing again.
…..“That’s bullshit!” Momma shouts.
…..I stick my thumb in my mouth which Momma says will make my teeth not grow right. But I know teeth don’t have feelings about what they look like. Dad’s hands still have a warm hold of my foot. He doesn’t make any sounds. It feels like all the kitchen’s underwater.
…..“Arthur!” Momma says, “Do something!”
…..I look at Dad. He doesn’t do something.
…..Momma says, “For crying out loud, this kid’s gotten us banned from a STORE!” She stomps over to the sink. “We got a KLEPTOMANIAC to deal with here! What’re the neighbors gonna say?” She stretches out the word sayyyyyy and then she starts to cry like the ladies on TV who Momma says look real sad but aren’t.
…..Extra gentle, Dad sets my foot on the floor. He stands up and touches Momma’s shoulders and looks at her, but her hands cover up her face. Watching this makes me want to go up to my room and read a book Irene gave me. It’s about Ferdinand the bull and how all he likes is smelling flowers and who cares about dumb bullfighting.
…..Dad brings Momma a drink of water. He helps her walk to the living room so she can plop on the couch. She’s dabbing her eyes with a tissue, which is starting to make my foot feel sad. Dad points outside. This means to follow him to the sun porch where there’s not any sun.
…..We sit on the swing. My toes push on the porch so the swing squeaks to and fro. All Dad’s doing is looking at the shrubs that the rain’s made dark and shiny. His overalls smell like Tide. He’s passing the chewed up toothpick from one side of his mouth to another.
…..Out in the yard I see skinny muddy rivers crawling between the trees. Momma’s grey dress and Dad’s grey underwears flap around the cloudy air on the washing line. In between, there’s the clothespins holding up my barfed-on shirt Momma washed. A secret I know that nobody else does is I won’t ever wear it again.
…..
…..
Traci Moore received her Certificate in Creative Writing from Phoenix College. Recently, her story, “If Pictures Could Fly”, was runner-up for the Martindale Literary Prize. Her writing has been published in Sleet Magazine, Foundling Review, Long Story Short and elsewhere.
