Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Texas Chili
Grapefruit
Butterflies and Broken Horses
At the kitchen island, Keller used his charcoal pencil to add the finishing touches to his butterfly sketch. He brought the picture close to his face and studied it, an expression of displeasure filling his eyes. Then from the television, a black-and-white nine-inch model sitting on the counter in front of him, came the grieving voice of a woman.
The woman on the television said, “She went to the carousel, saying she wanted to free the horses.”
The words brought Keller’s careful attention to the grainy picture. He released his hold on the butterfly sketch, letting it float to the floor. He reached forward and tweaked a small knob on the front of the television, hoping to clear the snowy image and get rid of the black horizontal lines that climbed steadily from the bottom of the screen.
For several moments his attempts to clear the picture were unsuccessful, so he reached up and worked the antenna, shifted it in one direction and the static crackled out of the speaker. He moved the rabbit-ears again. This time the picture improved slightly and Keller could make out on the screen a tearful woman standing before a large gathering of reporters.
He leaned in close, tilting his head.
The image of the woman’s face grew to fill the screen. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, raised her face to the sky. When her mouth opened again she seemed to Keller to be addressing only him.
“Please,” she pleaded, her voice breaking, her composure collapsing. She stared directly at Keller and said, “Please. Daniela is all I have in the world. Don’t hurt my baby.”
Keller yanked the television’s plug from the wall and slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder.
The young girl sat curled in the corner of the room. She was trembling, her bound hands held in front of her face as if she was expecting to be struck.
“Daniela,” Keller said, his hoarse whisper floating across the room.
The child’s chin rose. She shook her tangled blonde hair off her pale, smudged face and, wide-eyed, she sucked in her lower lip and shifted her bottom on the floor. Keller’s eyes grew wide as the fringe of the young girl’s yolk-yellow dress traveled up her skinny thighs.
Keller continued to stare. The girl moistened her lips.
He tilted his head even further, his right ear almost resting on his right shoulder.
In a frightened, mouse-like tone, the words spilled off the child’s tongue: “I wanna’ go home.”
For a long time Keller seemed to be considering her request. But he finally slipped off his stool and shook his head.
Keller rolled back his upper lip, revealing large, stained teeth. He raised an arm and fluttered his fingers. “Butterfly,” he said. “Daniela. Butterfly.”
She wept and screamed and pleaded and kicked her heels into the wooden floor. Keller brought his big hands up to his head and covered his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. Shaking his head violently, he stomped the floor and shouted. “Stop!”
But she wouldn’t quit fussing. Her crying swelled to hysterical howls. Keller pounded a fist on the counter and watched the girl pull herself into an ever tighter ball, listened to her crying shrivel to a pulsing sob.
“Butterflies,” Keller said again, raising his face to the ceiling. He went around the island and into the kitchen. “Free the horses.”
There were two rusted Folgers cans on the windowsill above the sink. Keller took one down and pried off the plastic lid. Several gray moths streamed out of the can, hovered a moment before flitting up toward the bulb, which glowed and dangled loosely from the ceiling. Keller watched his moths circle the light. He peered back into the can, reached in and used his fingertips to rub the chalky residue.
He slid the first Folgers can aside and took the second one down from the windowsill. He peeled back several inches of the lid. There were more moths in this can, and Keller watched them with amazement as they crept up the metal inside, slipped through the opening and perched on the rim of the lid. One after the other, the moths launched themselves, floated momentarily in front of Keller’s face before folding their wings and ascending into the light.
Keller let the second coffee can clank onto the floor and he spun around. The child stared at him.
He reached up and opened a cabinet, found a can of chicken soup and brought it down to the counter. The metal lid groaned when Keller pulled back the ring. He dug a filthy spoon out of the sink and turned to face the girl.
Step by shuffling step, Keller approached. His big shadow fell over her as he crouched in front of her, tilting his head. She squirmed, drew back until her spine was tight against the wall.
Keller scooped a spoonful of soup from the can. He placed it in front of the girl’s quivering lips. “Eat,” he said.
Eyes welling, the girl’s tongue darted between her lips, but she did not take the soup.
“Eat,” Keller repeated. “Butterfly must eat.” He edged the spoon against her lips. She recoiled, her head snapping backward, banging the wall behind her and the spoon fell to the floor.
Keller struck her with his open hand. She cried out.
He retrieved the spoon and dipped it into the can. He brought it up filled with soup and once again placed it against her lips.
This time she opened her mouth and took in the soup. Her throat rose and fell as she forced down the food. Her tiny lips trembled. Her knees, Keller could see, shook too.
After eating about a third of the soup, she turned her head, refusing any further offering.
Keller put down the can and raked the girl’s hair with his fingers. He pressed down on her head with his fingertips and felt her heart pounding beneath her scalp.
“Set the horses free?” Keller whispered.
The girl didn’t answer.
“Free. Daniela free horses.”
She bit her lip and nodded her head.
He reached forward and loosened the restraint around the girl’s wrists.
“Come,” he said, rising out of his crouch.
Silent and compliant, she got to her feet and the cord fell to the floor. Keller took her tiny hand and led her toward the front door.
Outside in the cool evening air, Keller started toward the path that cut through the woods.
“I’m going home?” the girl asked.
Keller stopped. He gazed at the child with a puzzled expression. The wind blew her yellow dress, the fabric’s movement lulling in the wedge of moonlight they stood in. He listened and heard the rustle of leaves, the creak of branches. He thought about all the butterflies he‘d possessed, how he had set them free in the woods.
“Free,” Keller said.
“Home?” the girl said, starting to snivel.
“Yes,” Keller nodded, smiling. “Home.”
Her eyes got big and a light, tight-lipped smile formed on her face. “I’m going home?”
Keller nodded. “After we free the horses.”
He sucked in the darkness and looked into the sky at the dippers. He gently squeezed the small, smooth hand blanketed by his large, coarse palm.
She squeezed his hand back. “Thank you,” she said.
When Keller started to walk again, the child skipped at his side, kicking up dust from the gravel path.
The mouth of the woods came into view and Keller paused again to gaze up at the bright dippers. “When butterfly done,” Keller said, pointing to the sky with his one free hand. “You fly to the light.”
Bad Milk
In the kitchen, Mom twists the cap off a fresh jug of milk. She fills a glass and after taking a sip, she screws her face up and says, “Milk’s gone sour.”
Dad rattles his newspaper, turns the page without answering.
“You need to bring it back to the grocery store and get a refund,” Mom says. When Dad flips the newspaper to the next page, Mom adds, “You hear me? You even listening?”
Finally, Dad lays the paper down on the table and says, “If you think it’s sour, you take it back.”
Holding the milk jug in one hand and the filled glass in the other, Mom stomps across the kitchen and holds the glass in the air in front of Dad’s face. “Drink it and tell me it isn’t sour.”
They stare at each other. Dad’s bottom lip twitches.
“I never said it wasn’t sour,” Dad says.
Mom stays stern. “Drink it!”
He takes the glass from her hand and brings it to his nose, sniffs it. Then, keeping his face stone expressionless, Dad empties the glass in three gulps. Mom sets the jug on the table. “If you can stomach bad milk,” she says, “then you can finish it.” She whirls and heads back to the stove, where she slides a pan over the burner and turns the knob.
While the bacon sizzles, Mom keeps rambling. She scolds Dad about the rusted Rambler sitting in the driveway. “Keeps breaking down,” Mom says, “and he still refuses to get rid of it.” Mom brings up Dad’s wardrobe. “I can’t believe he wears those frayed and faded clothes in public.” Mom even mentions the dog. “Humane thing would be to have the old fleabag put down,” she says. “But that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Pretending things you keep around are still of use.”
For a few minutes Dad stares down at his hands on the table. They’re trembling. He raises his head and gazes a long time at Mom’s back while she’s bent over the stove. Then Dad picks the jug of milk up. He refills the glass and empties it. He does this again and again, pours and sips, pours and sips, until finally, the jug is empty.
About the Dog
Molly, man, she's been poutin' all morning. Got herself locked in her room and won't come out for shit.
Every time I rap against the door, she just says, "Go 'way, Harper. Go 'way."
Then, 'bout noon she comes boltin' past the sofa, haulin' her suitcase and sayin', "Keepthefuckindog. Keepthefuckindog." Again and again, just like that. One streamin' pauseless phrase that's got me glancin' up from the shit I'm rollin'.
"Molly?"
"Keepthefuckindog," she says again, louder.
Now the front door's flung open and Molly's pacin' the porch. My dog, a fat basset bitch I call Pokerface, who's sprawled on the carpet next to my feet, stares up at me with her big red unblinkin' eyes.
"What the fuck, Molly?" I say, staggerin' off the sofa. That's when all my shit spills off my lap: the dope, high-grade Columbian, the Zig-Zags, and even the plastic stars-and-stripes rollin' machine I snaked off Habib at the corner store.
I got to hold the arm of the sofa to keep from crashin' onto the floor. "Fuck," I say, and Pokerface, still gazin' up at me, just kind of grunts.
Molly's got her arms crossed, got her suitcase on the slats of the wooden porch, got the toes of her shoes tappin'. I stumble to the door and lean against the frame.
"What's up with this, Molly?"
She whirls to face me. "You, Harper, you—" Now she's jabbin' her finger in my face, tryin' to spit the words out, " —you, Harper, you don't give a shit about anything but that dog."
That ain't true and Molly knows it. Though Pokerface has been with me longer than Molly has, I'd do anything for Molly. Took her in when she was dumped by her old man, didn't I? Took her to the clinic so she could lose dude's kid, didn't I? Took her out and got her every damn thing she wanted. Never once asked her to cop a job so she could contribute to the finances.
"You're talkin' false shit, Molly. Is this 'bout last night? I love listenin' to them poems you write."
She don't say nothin', just blinks a few times.
Hardly able to keep on my feet, I slide down the frame. Pokerface has made her way over, so I wrap an arm around Pokerface's thick neck and say, "Ain't that right, bitch? Don't I care lots 'bout Molly?"
I look up to catch Molly shakin' her head.
Then, all of the sudden this rusted Rambler sidles up to the curb and Molly snatches her suitcase, races down the steps and wades through the weeds toward the idlin' Rambler.
I claw the doorframe, get myself back on my feet. "Molly!" My voice doesn't even sound right, like I'm underwater or something, like Maaaahlee or something.
Molly doesn't quit hurryin', doesn't look back, not even when she reaches the Rambler. She just swings the door open and slings her suitcase over the front seat into the back. Then she hops in, slammin' the door behind her.
I move across the porch, dizzier than shit, and grip the wooden rail. I scream out and my voice echoes, kind of like, "MOLLY, Molly, molly."
But she ain't payin' me no mind. She's got her gaze forward, her arms crossed. The wind's all kicked up, blowin' her stringy blonde shit across her face.
I start down the steps and catch a splinter from the knotty rail. Shit, I say, but not so loud. I use my teeth to dig the sliver out of my palm.
Then, the driver of the Rambler, some hype with a blue barbwire tattoo wrapped around his neck, peers past Molly and grins. Goddamn if it ain't her ex. He steeples his middle finger, still grinnin' like the sick fuck he is.
I spread my arms out to my side, like, 'What the fuck?'
Molly whips her head my way and shakes it. I recognize that pout she's sportin'. She's fuckin' cryin', Molly is.
So it crosses my mind that hey, maybe she ain't really leavin'.
"Molly? I shout again, this time the words bump out of my mouth, like some kind of murmur. "Molly?"
"Keepthefuckindog," Molly says, buryin' her face in her hands for a couple seconds before starin' back up out the windshield. Her thumbnail shoots to her mouth where I know it'll get gnawed like it always does when Molly ain't feelin' right 'bout something.
The Rambler peels out, leaving me standing at the foot of porch. Black smoke lingers where the Rambler had been curbed, the stink of rubber everywhere. So what the fuck just went down?
"Molly!" I shout, loud as I can. Then I collapse onto the bottom step and stare straight out to where the Rambler ain't no more, still not understanding shit because, shit, because—well, I guess because I ain't had the guts to get it all together.
Then, in all the crazy silence that just hangs, Pokerface, who I'd damn near forgotten 'bout, she starts to Ahwooo Ahwooo Ahwooo, a mournful howl, like she just knows someone bought it or something.
So that's when I'm hit with this 'piphany shit, this revelation that strikes me like a damn bell. Just like in them books Molly's always tellin' me 'bout, always tryin' to get me to read.
Molly, see, and all the shit that just went down—well, none of it, none of it at all had anythin' to do with the dog.
Echoes
All morning the rain has been pelting the campus. When lunch hour arrives, instead of idling in the quad, most of the students pour into the gym. Knotted together like weeds, the kids generate an almost unbearable noise. A noise that boomerangs off the high walls of the cavernous space.
Somewhere Inside of me Elias stirs, I can feel him struggling to surface. He knows the difficulty I have in dealing with such intense stimulation. I tense myself, keeping Elias within.
In my attempt to create order out of the noise, my senses swirl. They capture every sound -- every sneaker that squeaks against the wooden gymnasium floor, every plastic tray slammed against a tabletop. The laughing. The laughing. The laughing. And even the wind has such a sharp tune as it chants its way into the space with every opening and closing of the heavy doors. My skin bristles as the noises burrow deeper inside me.
In the echoes, I try and locate the girl. She is different. She has the ability to connect. Although Elias and I aren’t sure if she’s aware of it, Elias says we desperately need to communicate with her. But with so many distractions she is difficult to locate. I close my eyes and scan the gym with my mind. Finally, I hone in and find her alone at a table near the bleachers.
I open my eyes, gaze in her direction. The energy of so many confined voices and thoughts create a near impenetrable barrier. My steady stare burns away the clutter until finally my focus is fixed only on her.
But in this moment of intense concentration, Elias has grabbed the opportunity and forced himself to the surface. He is so much stronger than I. Within moments the girl raises her head and glances our way.
Every person has an echo, some have more than one. Elias says this to me. The girl’s echoes are stronger than most. Her controlled level of awareness is why she is so important to me -- to us.
She senses our presence. We can see that by the way she stares in our direction, picking through the crowd. An expression of understanding creeps across her face when she locks eyes with us. The brief expression is blinked away, her comprehension collapses. She lowers her head and resumes picking from her plate with her fingers.
Elias and I wait in the long line to grab something to eat. At the counter we ask for a tuna melt and a Pepsi, and then we find a place to sit at a table not far from where the girl continues her lunch. In between bites we try again to connect, but her awareness of us has dissipated completely.
When the bell rings we get up, leaving our trash on the table. We stuff our hands deep into our pockets and head down the hall to our next class. The corridor and the gray lockers that line the walls spin rapidly without moving. A sense of illusion assaults me and Elias from seven directions.
During science class, Elias withdraws and allows me to deal with the click, click, click the reels make as a graphic film dealing with rabbit dissection is spit onto a white screen.
Two classes later, in English 101, I am in the same room with the girl again. Her desk is near the front of the room. While the teacher drones, I watch the girl from where I sit in front of the window. Only when she begins to wrap a lock of red hair around two fingers, do I attempt to reach her. She is drifting away now. I know this and I concentrate on connecting. But I’m only able to penetrate her deep enough that she ceases twirling her hair. She straightens in her seat and turns around to scan the room.
Once before she’d nodded knowingly. Elias had been with me then. We floated through her green eyes and inside of her, staying with her. That’s how we discovered there were two of them, maybe more. But the screech, screech, screech of chalk scraping the blackboard had shattered that connection, had sent Elias and me spinning through the air, through shards of prismatic light.
At the back of the class I slouch at a desk in front of the window. On warm afternoons when the window’s pushed open my pores suck in the hollow hums and grassy odors caught in the breeze blowing in. If the days are dark and damp, though, the room closes in, smothers me. The buzz of fluorescents on the ceiling, the scuff of sneakers on the tiles, the scratching of so many pencils pressed against paper, and the snap of streamers writhing above the heater vents behind me would finally force me to press the balls of my palms to my ears.
Seeing me, the teacher would open her mouth. Her voice would stretch across the room -- “D a n -- y e l” -- and I’d be jerked back. Elias would usually come out then, in case a reply is expected from the teacher.
I close my eyes and concentrate. Because I am unsuccessful, I allow Elias to take control. Finally she twists in her seat and meets our gaze. A dull film rises to her pupils. They are both present now, and when they smile I know they both recognize us. An instant later, however, she blinks her echo away and turns again to face the blackboard.
After school I follow her home. She lives at the end of a gray street in a house backed up to a meadow. As her distance from me increases, Elias struggles to reach the surface. We shout out to her when she is almost home, but she is too far. Our hand reaches forward, trying to grasp her, growing longer and larger and wider, creeping through the afternoon mist until it consumes everything ahead of us.
Still, she keeps walking, just beyond our grasp, shrinking smaller and smaller and smaller, until she is no more than a faraway fleck.
At home, with my hands behind my head, I stare up at the ceiling. I do this every night while I wait for darkness to whisk me away.
At dawn my mother taps her fingertips against my shoulder. I hear her voice, feel her gentle touch. I desperately try to tell her. But even before my eyelids can flutter for a third time, Elias has dragged himself to the surface.
Our mother disappears from the room and we roll out of bed to deal with another day.
Cacho, Dripping for Affection
Cacho turned onto his stomach and thought about Stephanie. She was something else. Ever since shed moved in, she'd never given him so much as the time of day. If he was slouched on the living-room sofa when she came home from her classes, she wouldn't bother acknowledging him. She'd simply point her nose skyward and stride up the steps in that sexy, prissy manner of hers. Joyce, however, was worse. She teased Cacho about his long bumpy nose, about his weight, about his acne. God, he hoped the sloshing wasn't coming from Joyce's room. It would be nice, though, if the room above his belonged to the new girl. In the short while she'd been here, she'd never given any indication that she might have a cruel streak running through her..
Despite Stephanie's obvious disinterest in Cacho, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Just yesterday hed watched her from his window while she washed her car. Her T-shirt clung to her tight body and every time she stretched to sponge the hood of her car, the hems of her very short shorts traveled high up her thigh.
Now, while lying in bed listening to the water slosh in the room above his, Cacho's hand wandered beneath his blanket, beneath his boxers. He caught himself and quickly removed the straying hand. In the darkness the ceiling creaked again. The noise had ceased and all Cacho could hear now was the shrill whistle of a running faucet.
He shifted onto his back and suddenly recalled the day Stephanie had rear-ended Bill's Volkswagen. Cacho thought it was funny at first, because Bill, who rented the other lower-floor room in the Victorian, was an asshole. A two-hundred-plus pound thug who acted as if his being the football team's star quarterback gave him special privileges. More than once Cacho had removed popcorn from his stringy blonde hair after Bill and his buddies pelted him in the living-room.
Right after she'd smashed the taillights of Bill's car, Stephanie was all over him. It made Cacho sick to watch her, the way she cried like a baby into Bill's chest, the way she clutched his plump hand, and clawed at his curly hair. After seeing how Stephanie acted, Cacho would lock his ten-speed to the tree in the planting strip right alongside the curb where he knew Stephanie parked. But she never did crush his bicycle.
The ceiling creaked again. This time, it creaked loud enough that Cacho turned onto his side, found the lamp chain and pulled it. A blotchy yellow light spilled over the room. Cacho stared up and, though he was startled, smiled when he saw the sagging ceiling. Looking closely, he could see tiny droplets of condensation bubbling up like discolored blisters. He sat up in bed and considered for a moment calling the landlord. But it only took a few minutes for Cacho to laugh and dismiss the thought. He pulled the chain on the lamp again, stretched himself out on his mattress and closed his eyes.
He waited, tensing up and smiling each time the ceiling groaned. He spread his arms wide, curled his toes and waited some more. While waiting in the dark, he continued to smile. He sensed something special, something eventful was about to happen, was about to change his luck regarding the women who lived in the Victorian with him.
