1-25-06, 1:00 pm
Cheryl roughly tweaked her nose with a thumb and finger, sniffed deliberately and snapped her head up with a shake. I’m not going to cry all the way to work. Looking out of the city bus window, she could see the sun just beginning its assent, caught like film frames between the skyscrapers, a bloody yolk already sizzling and stewing in the hot summer morning.
* * *
“Jim!” A tiny girl voice hoarsely whispered. “Jim!” She insisted again. “I have to go to the bathroom, and I’m scared of the hole in the wall.”
Struggling up from deep-sea slumber and aiming headfirst for the shallow waters, he felt her words breaking like surface bubbles against his cheek. He inhaled with a start, warm dusty air surging deep into his brain, stirring his awareness, his empty stomach, and his need to pee all at once. His eyes opened but did not see. He stretched his lids wider striving to catch even a single glint of light, some orientation, but could not. Then, turning his head instinctively toward the bedroom window, her little white saucer face came into his view, the dark, curly edges disappearing back into the black room.
“Jim get up. I have to go to the bathroom!”
That’s right. It’s my day to watch the twins. She’s at work. Working hard. Sewing all day. The same seam 450 times in 10 hours, she always says. It was the least he could do. He loved her, adored her, and waking revived the daily ritualized torment he practiced on himself; worrying compulsively that he was not earning the money they needed to live where there were no holes in the bathroom baseboards to scare Missy.
“Okay. Come on, little-bit.” He tossed back the sheet.
“Turn on the light.” She whined. “Please.”
“Oh, Missy, come on. No light. It’ll wake up Mary.”
“A mouse might come!”
A rat, more likely, Jim thought as he felt for the switch and flipped on the light. He squinted in the white electric sun and shifted his weight from one foot to the other while waiting his turn. Cheryl’s recent presence in the room was palpable. The fragrance of her cologne hung in the warm air, still damp from her shower. Smudgy, metallic makeup sticks and tubes lay unclosed and scattered across the back of the bathroom sink. Melissa flipped her nightgown up and hopped up on to the toilet. Jim reached around behind the commode, got the large, plastic bowl wedged between the wall and the fixture, and took it over to the tub to fill with water. A gray flash of movement behind the four-inch hole caught his attention. He was glad they had turned on the light. Missy would have had fits if a rat had run through the room. The flusher was broken. When Melissa finished, he shooed her out, did his morning pee, and poured the water quickly into the pot. The sudden infusion sent the yellow water on a slow motion, whirling ebb down the pipes. He dug around in the dirty clothes pile on the floor, found one of the girls’ T-shirts, and stuffed it into the rat hole.
“Did Mommy make breakfast?” Mary came pit-a-patting up behind them in the hall, rubbing her eyes and scratching at her curls.
“Y’all go watch cartoons. I’ll make some biscuits and syrup.”
Jim went back to the bedroom and pulled two pillows off the bed. He fisted the unseasonable and outgrown little sweaters back into the cases to fluff them up and took them to the front room. The girls stretched out on the floor with their chins in their hands and their elbows on the cushions while Tom and Jerry died, recovered, and died again as always, to infinity.
Jim found only one can of biscuits in the refrigerator and a little stick of margarine, but he knew they had plenty of sugar. They had got the sugar when it was two for one. When potatoes were on sale there would be soup, and fried potato sandwiches, and mashed potato pancakes. When peanut butter was in stock, the meals all tasted like snacks, and when the pantry was full of sugar, the menu was syrup and sweet drinks. Make do, she always said, with whatever’s on hand. We’re resourceful people. We do what we have to do.
Jim popped the biscuit can against a counter and laid out the little dough circles on a flat, metal sheet to bake. Then, he filled a saucepan halfway with water, poured out a sugar mountain into the center of the pot; displacing the liquid, the collapsing apex signaling, “enough.” The stove dials were missing and he fingered a remaining grimy, steel bolt until the front electric burner came on. He stirred the syrup slowly until it was bubbling and sticky on the spoon. When the biscuits were brown, he made three plates, three biscuits for each girl and four for him. He spooned a little warm syrup on one side of each plate and dumped a lump of margarine in the center of each puddle, the yellow fat, quickly feathering into the hot sugar.
“Come on girls. It’s ready.”
Jim took three glasses from the dish dryer on the counter and filled them with water. He carried the plates and glasses by two and then by one to the coffee table in the front room. The twins sat on their knees and Jim sat on the sofa. The three of them dragged their biscuits through the syrup, sopping up a little oleo with each swipe and ate deliberately as if the whole world had stopped. No chit chat, no Tom and Jerry, no blessings. Just hot biscuits and syrup.
The little, second floor apartment was already warm, but not as hot as it could get. Jim brought the box fan from the bedroom and set it up in the front room. He kept the curtains and windows closed to block the heat radiating from the glass panes. They could preserve as much of the night coolness that remained in the apartment for as long as possible. Later when the choking humidity and stale, heated air got to be too much, they could open the windows for whatever breeze was available.
The twins finished their breakfasts and resumed their hypnotic states in front of the television. Jim rinsed the dishes and stuck the pan of leftover syrup into the refrigerator. Checking the freezer for ice, he saw that there was plenty; freshly cracked, and the trays, though recently filled were already glistening with little shards of new crystals. She must have filled them before she left for work. Good. He looked in the cabinet pantry and squeezed the box of powdered milk. It was at least half full. They could make “milk shakes” later. It was Jim’s specialty.
He headed to the bedroom and to his designated top two drawers in the chest. Looking for shorts and finding only jeans, he retreated to the bathroom and found a not-too-dirty pair of cut-offs. Jim made the one bed they all shared and scrounged up an outdated newspaper from under it. Want ads missing, sports page missing, just the comic section folded crosswise against the proper creases remained. He took it with him to the front room where the girls were arguing over which one said she wanted Barbie first.
“I said I wanted it first. Then you said it.”
“So. I want it, too.”
“But you said you wanted Computer Whiz Barbie.”
“So. I want her, too.”
“Y’all want everything.” Jim griped as he stretched out with his paper on the sofa.
Mattel commercials concluded, the girls slipped wordlessly back into their trances while Mary Kate and Ashley anguished over boyfriends and bad grades and whether hats should match boots. Jim traced the chubby children in the Family Circus comic with a finger and remembered a time, not so long ago, when things had been different in their little apartment; a time before the layoffs, before the first of so many “yard sales” when Cheryl had dragged their personal belongings outside and laid them out neatly on the courtyard lawn, a time when Mary and Melissa had more toys, more clothes, and more food. The girls were toddlers then, their father was sending money at least some of the time, and everything had been better for all of them. “Okay. Show‘s over. Go get dressed and bring me the brush.”
Melissa and Mary didn’t argue. After watching the sitcom-fashion show of their favorite mirror images, they were in the mood for dressing. Even four-year-olds recognize scarcity but blessed by the filters of childish imagination, Mommy’s scuffed, dress heels and winter boots were transformed into high-style footwear. Both girls returned sporting shorts, tank tops and Cheryl’s oversized shoes.
Jim brushed their hair and sent them to wash their faces and brush their teeth. They did as he asked. They usually did. They were no trouble, just noisy and silly and hungry all the time. He wasn’t hungry, and even if he was, they always had water. He drank all the water he wanted and more. Jim could drink water and put thoughts of mashed potatoes and gravy and fried chicken right out of his mind. He was proud of that self-control. Proud that if she had to support them all, he would require the least.
By 1 p.m., the apartment was an oven on low bake, in spite of the whirring box fan. Jim opened all the apartment windows and placed the fan in the hall to circulate the air a little. Melissa and Mary, who had been playing cooperatively and happily in the bedroom all morning, alternating between make-believe fashion shows and doll games, were now feeling cranky in the heavy air. Jim had found only one television program that was not a soap opera and was watching a CHIPS rerun, when he heard the squabbling begin.
“Stop it! I said I’m gonna tell! Jim! Missy won’t share the lipstick!”
“What lipstick?” Jim jumped up, picturing the twin’s faces and clothes smeared waxy red. In the bedroom, the girls were sitting on the bed with arms extended and hands intertwined, pulling and tugging, like some weird paper doll chain.
“Both of you! Stop it! Right now!” Jim broke the girls’ grip and retrieved the gold tube in one fast move. He was relieved to see the makeover had not yet begun and the stick was intact.
“Go and wash your faces off with cool water. And stop fighting. It just makes you hotter.”
“Wait!” Jim suddenly reached out and grabbed Melissa’s arm before she could leave the room. He heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to the apartment. Pressing his finger deep to his lips and setting his jaw, he motioned the girls to be silent. They froze in place. Jim lifted Melissa back on to the bed just as the knocking started. He hoped the front door was locked. He hadn’t checked it all day. The three of them sat on the bed staring straight at each other, not moving, barely breathing.
“It’s Mommy.” Mary whispered hopefully.
“Mommy has a key.”
The knocking continued. Hard, angry knocking.
“I’m scared.”
“Shhh.” Jim shushed and gently encouraged the girls to lie down. Mary turned on her side and started sucking her thumb. Melissa curled up against her back. Jim sat on the edge of the bed looking down the hall towards the front door. The banging continued. He worried. Who would keep knocking like this? Police? Burglars looking for an empty apartment?
“Mr. or Mrs. Fowler? This is Rent-a-Set! Your TV lease has been up for two weeks. We’re here to pick it up!”
Bang, bang, bang.
“Come on. We can hear the TV. We know you’re home!”
Bang, bang, bang.
“This basically amounts to theft of property and if you don’t return the TV by 6:00 p.m. today we’ll have to notify the police!”
Bang, bang, bang.
Jim’s stomach hurt now, the water sloshing uncomfortably as his nerves tightened up his abdomen. The girls were already drifting to sleep. He lay down next to them, first draping an arm protectively around both, but then, feeling the stick of gluey perspiration, he rolled over by himself.
Bang, bang, bang.
If only he could help more, wasn’t so worthless.
Then he too, sought safety and escape and allowed himself to be drawn in to the dark theater, the auditorium of no-cares and other worlds where the ticket holder-dreamer suspends time and the wolves at the door in limbo. He slept the depressed sleep of one who does not want to wake, ever, endlessly watching his starring role movie: riding motorcycles and chasing red lips with shiny plastic tubes, swimming with Cheryl in empty jelly glasses and eating hot snow. Peeing syrup. He needed to wake up and go to the bathroom, empty his bladder of all the water. No. He tried to hold on to the heavy, velvety stage drapes, to stay forever in the theater of his dream world, where only monsters and killers could stalk him, safe from the reality of bill collectors and deadly heat and starvation. He would not let the movie end. He did not want the curtain to drop or the lights to come up. But, he had to go. Have to pee.
Jim startled awake for the second time that day. He listened. No knocking. The girls were okay, but they were flushed and sweating. He went to the bathroom, then to the hall for the box fan. Plugging the cord in near the side of the bed, he turned it on and watched as the wet, matted curls, stuck to the twins’ foreheads, dried and lifted in the breeze.
By the time the girls got up from their naps, the temperature in the boxy apartment was 10 degrees higher than 96 degrees outside. Jim undressed the twins and washed them down with cool water from the bathroom faucet. They squeezed the wet rag over their heads and Jim shook his hair like a dog making the girls scream and laugh as the salty, tepid spray hit their faces. “Is it suppertime, yet?” Mary spoke aloud the question Jim was dreading.
“No silly! It’s time Milk Shake Time!”
The girls squealed like game show contestants and jumped up and down clapping. They ran to the kitchen with Jim, the wet dog, barking and chasing them.
“And now ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the secrets of Jim’s milk shakes. First, we need three jars.”
The girls scrambled to the cabinet under the sink and got the empty mayonnaise jars Cheryl had stored there. Jim pulled the bucket of ice from the freezer and sat it very ceremoniously in the middle of the kitchen table.
“Now we need the MILK.”
With a pitcher of water and the powdered milk from the pantry, Jim stirred up two quarts of milk, managing to get most of the powdery lumps out.
“We will also need sugar and the very secret ingredient!” Jim produced the sugar and vanilla flavoring from the pantry to the cheers of Melissa and Mary.
“Alright girls, you know what to do!”
Jim, Melissa and Mary each filled their own jar with ice to the rim. They lined them up on the table and Jim carefully poured milk, a scoop of sugar and a capful of flavoring into each one. Then he screwed the lids on as tight as he could.
“Let the milk shaking, begin!” The trio held their jars with both hands and shook as hard as they could, clattering the ice against glass and agitating the milk into bubbly foam. Rivulets of cold milk leaked from the jar tops and ran down the girls’ arms. Tossing the lids into the sink, they carried their shakes into the front room. Once again, Jim moved the fan from the bedroom. This time, he sat on the floor with the girls, the three of them directly in the line of the hot, electric wind.
They watched Leave it to Beaver, and Sponge Bob, and Home Improvement and I Love Lucy (the last not holding the girls’ attention very well, Jim had resorted to bringing out crayons and paper) while drinking their drinks and sucking on sugary, creamy ice cubes. They all had seconds, but not even the sugar could move them from their heat induced lethargy and their moods fell with their blood sugar levels.
“When is Mommy going to be home?” Mary complained.
“Just look up at the clock. See? She put the black tape on the number for the big hand and the blue mark is for the little hand. When that lines up, it will be 7:30 and she’ll be walking up those stairs.” Jim reached out to touch each girl on the face, judging for heat. He felt unbearably hot. As much for himself as the girls, they made another trip to cool off in the bathroom. Then returned to the front room where they sat in front of the fan talking in to it and making crazy sounds that tickled the girls to distraction.
At 8 p.m. Cheryl boarded the bus home noting with shame the unrelenting sun hanging stubbornly onto a darkening sky. She was late. It made her sick. Every minute that passed now crowded her brain against her skull into a sinking dread, a quiet panic. She needed to vomit. She had taken action, made a critical decision, the consequences of which she could not yet know, but her plan had at least netted her two armfuls of groceries courtesy of the Salvation Army.
All day at work, her stomach had hurt. She was dizzy at the machine and nearly fainted. Her hands shook and finally, just after the paychecks were distributed, she made up her mind. She never said a word to anyone, not her supervisor, not even Florence, her friend on the line, who could tell something was up. She had just walked out at the 3:30 break time and never looked back.
She bussed over to the Salvation Army and threw herself at the mercy of the Christian soldiers. She could not tell them the whole story, of course, but fortunately, after a gospel lesson, and exacting a promise from her that she would come back Sunday for church services, they had only wanted to know how many children and how many working adults were in the home. A grocery voucher, surly checker and two bus connections later, Cheryl was finally headed home. Now she tapped out her nervous energy on a cake mix box top sticking out of one sack and stuffed her purse between the bus wall and her leg. She thought of her father and how good he had been to them, she thought of the twins’ father and how he had tried to be good them. They were both gone now. All the men were gone now. Except Jim. Fear and dread and shame began gnawing at her joints. She felt her jaw tighten and temples pop. Her tapping fingers became stiff and her toes curled up into knots in her shoes. A low moan tried to break free from her throat as she closed her eyes and prayed. Please, God. Let everything be okay.
Cheryl ripped the Rent-a-Set notice off the door with one trembling hand, while clutching the grocery bags in her arms. Awkwardly, she managed to unlock the front door and stepped quietly inside the dark apartment. A sweltering, hot blast of air enveloped her, yet she shivered stiffly. Only the slightest, warm breeze was circulating throughout the little rooms. The curtains moved almost imperceptibly at the open front windows. Not enough breeze to cool off tonight. Oh, please, God, please, God… She sat her packages down on the kitchen table and tiptoed through the hall toward the bedroom. Cheryl saw the twin moon faces of her daughters and reached her hand out silently in the dark room to touch the nearest cheek. Mary rolled over toward her sister. Cheryl exhaled finally and thanked unseen angels with silently moving lips. The girls were okay, sleeping only a few feet away from the life saving breeze of the old fan, and clutching the wet rags Jim had given them. Jim is always so good, so dependable, she thought.
Her heart did not break then, it stopped, shattered and sunk like busted concrete into her stomach. Cheryl marveled that she had thought herself resolved enough, tough enough to risk her children this way. When had the world managed to replace her mother-blood with this cement mixture? Maybe it happened as the door hit the ass on shiftless lovers, or when she lost her good job. The new job earned her enough money to pay the rent and bus fare yet was somehow too much to qualify her family for food stamps. How could she have let herself become so hard, so cold? Whatever the world had done to her, nothing could move her to do it again. She walked quietly back to the living room and kneeled down beside Jim, sleeping on the sofa, his bare, sweaty chest rising and falling, a little wet cloth draped across his throat. Sweet, Jim, she whispered, I love you. She kissed him softly and stroked his damp cheeks just as tears began wetting her own. Then she stood up, leaned over him, and scooped him up in her arms, carrying him into the bedroom. She would bake the cake for him tomorrow and they would all have ice cream and Cokes and frosting and she would never leave them again. Yes, even if all the other men were gone, Jim was still here and tomorrow was his birthday. He was going to be six years old. Cheryl undressed down to her bra and panties, went into the kitchen and ran cool water over her wrists. Whatever was in store for them now, made little difference. They would get by, just as they always had. They were resourceful people. Cheryl splashed her face and patted it dry with a towel. She turned her attention to the bags on the table and began putting away the groceries.
