Living Things Read online

  Gone? one of Mama Powell’s church friends had said. Just like that?

  And Mama Powell said that it was. That it was just like that. The baby was gone, and they looked everywhere, and finally they found the poor thing, some fifteen miles away, up in a tree.

  Was it alive? the lady said, and Mama Powell said they thought it was. It looked all right, not scratched up or anything, but when they got it down, they saw that the baby was dead.

  The church ladies covered their mouths and shook their heads, but they leaned in closer. Was it a head wound? one said. A contusion?

  A hematoma?

  Mama Powell nodded. Might have been, she said, and she was nearly whispering now. But that wind. It gets so strong. It’ll rip off the roof of a house and suck everything out the top.

  That’s when Mama Powell had seen May Fly watching and she’d gone real quiet real quick, but May Fly had heard the worst of it. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she thought about her mother and she thought about her daddy, and she thought, too, about birds and wind chimes and babies in trees. And standing there in front of Miss Rawley, she thought she knew what it might feel like to have everything inside of you ripped right out.

  Maybe Miss Rawley knew something about that too. She listened to what May Fly had to say. Then she opened the screen and took the wallet back, and she didn’t say much of anything besides thank you, but she looked at May Fly. She stared right at her, and it wasn’t just the color of Miss Rawley’s eyes that made a person feel like she was seeing through to the bottom of something deep and dark.

  You hear that? Miss Rawley said.

  They stood there together, and neither one of them moved, and they were quiet as people are when they are listening, and there were the chimes, but there was also, from some distance, the rumble and then the unmistakable blow of the train.

  Miss Rawley smiled. It’s on its way.

  She stepped back inside and closed the screen door, and by the time May Fly turned around and walked back down the steps, the train was already that much louder, so much closer. She got into Mama Powell’s car, and Mama Powell started the engine, and they drove away. They drove not back to the white house by the tracks but over to Mama Powell’s on Quinby Place.

  They didn’t have pizza. Mama Powell never ate food made in a restaurant, and she wouldn’t dream of making something so foreign herself. But she cooked macaroni and cheese and there were collards and there was bread and for dessert, pecan pie.

  Mama Powell made May Fly take a bath and gave her an old nightgown to sleep in and rubbed her elbows and her knees with the same butter that she herself used. May Fly stayed in Viva’s old room. There wasn’t much of Viva left in it, just a few pictures and some dresses in the back of the closet. But there was a certain and strong sense that Viva had been there, had so often slept in the very bed where May Fly lay now. Viva was so much like a ghost in that room that May Fly had to remind herself her mother wasn’t dead. Her mother wasn’t dead.

  It was dark outside, and finally, the rain had started to fall. It came gently at first, and then grew into a steady drum. May Fly had eaten everything Mama Powell had put in front of her, but there was still a distinct sinking, an empty place that would growl for good. May Fly wondered if Miss Rawley had gone through her wallet yet, if she’d noticed what was missing.

  Like Mama Powell said, you didn’t always need to see to understand. So maybe Miss Rawley knew what May Fly was just figuring out as she laid in bed feeling the sharp cut of the identification card against her hand. You had to give up a lot. Most everything, May Fly saw now. But there were some things you couldn’t let go.

  SOME THREAT OF EXPLOSION

  Miriam was awake and watching, so she saw the hatchback Datsun rattle up and scarcely slow as the rolled newspaper shot out the open window and landed square in the street.

  Miriam didn’t remember papers thrown in the street when Bobby was alive. In fact, she remembered the newspaper landing precisely in the middle of the welcome mat she kept by the front door. From behind the porch plants, she watched the Datsun speed up as it careened around the corner. A puff of smoke came out the blackened tail pipe, and the smell of it burned Miriam’s nose. She had the feeling that people were taking advantage of her. She was a woman, old and alone.

  Scoot, she said to the orange cat on her lap. Dutifully, Pete jumped off her lap and stretched his way to the edge of the porch where he began licking his paw in earnest.

  Miriam pushed up off the wicker loveseat. It was an old loveseat that she sprayed every spring. This past March, the project had taken the better part of a day because for some reason, a change in medication perhaps, Miriam had felt more worn out than usual. She’d had to sit down halfway through the job and drink some orange juice. On top of the new heart pills, it was just the paint getting to her, all those toxins. Things were more poisonous than they used to be. Miriam was sure of it.

  It was 7:38 a.m. Miriam wore her watch though she was still in her nightgown, a cotton smock that, in the sun, showed the rolls and folds of her body, but at that time of day, the neighborhood was quiet. There weren’t many people out and about.

  Ridiculous, Miriam said. The paper was closer to the neighbor’s house than it was to her own. A pair of lesbians lived in the yellow house, and Miriam was surprised at how little this bothered her. She found herself only dimly curious about how Cathy and the other woman came to have a tiny baby. Probably the same way Clarice Powell, another old widow who lived on the other side of Miriam, came to have her little granddaughter living with her. Everything boiled down to someone not taking responsibility while everyone else footed the bill.

  Miriam reached down for the paper, and for a minute, there wasn’t one paper but two. Miriam closed her eyes tight and shook her head. She made a note to give the circulation manager a call, let him know about the poor state of deliveries, and while she was at it, she might say something about those editorials, which were sometimes engaging but more often than not wound up in a kind of spiritual fervor with all of the principle and none of the grace. Tiresome, Miriam would tell him, and she’d make sure he knew she was a retired language arts teacher and that what she thought mattered. The editorials were a perfect example—they just didn’t teach appropriate tone and specific audience in schools anymore, Miriam believed without really knowing what anyone did now. She was seventy-three, and it had been a long time since she’d been in a classroom or anywhere besides church.

  She pulled off the rubber band and slid it down her knobby wrist. Still standing in the street, she unrolled the paper as if it were some holy scroll. She studied the big picture on the front page—three young girls wearing crowns and holding bouquets of red roses.

  Below the fold, The Record had a What’s Happening? section that listed play productions and concerts and things, mostly in the next town over, and Miriam had intended to go to a few of these events, but she hadn’t. Somehow, it had become difficult for her to go places. She was tired at times. That was true, but there was something else. Something more.

  Miriam knew a poor shift in tone, and she could still recognize the moment when passion overtook a writer’s reason, but there were times when she could hardly imagine that for forty-six years, she’d gone to work every morning and stood in front of so many children looking to her for answers. When Miriam thought of those days, even briefly, she was nearly overcome with a terror so strong it could buckle her knees. So she didn’t go to the plays or the concerts or the benefit sales. Instead, she stayed home and pulled a few weeds or, more likely, watched television—cooking shows and British comedies and, when she was feeling really low, afternoon game shows.

  Birds of a Feather was on just now, and Miriam was about to turn and go back to the house when, in Cathy’s yard, something moved and caught Miriam’s eye. For a ridiculous second, Miriam thought she must have seen the baby, but the baby wouldn’t be out there alone, would she?

  Miriam’s perception adjusted and she saw it was Ca
thy’s dog, Spikey. What a dull name, Miriam thought. All together expected and an assault to the dog’s worth as far as Miriam was concerned. On principle, Miriam believed that animals should be given the dignity of a normal, respectable name. Nothing food-related like Biscuit or Nacho or Oreo. Nothing too cute like Cuddles or Snug-Bug. Spikey was a cliché and not at all suitable for the mastiff who, despite his monstrous size, seemed very sweet and more rolls and loose skin than muscle. A name like Spikey, Miriam thought to tell Cathy, gave people the wrong impression.

  Miriam had only seen Spikey a couple of times when Cathy took him for a walk. He was always in the backyard behind a tall privacy fence Cathy had built. Miriam had been spraying the loveseat—actually, she’d been sitting on the porch, drinking her orange juice—when Cathy was putting up the panels. She and the other woman hadn’t had the baby long then, and Miriam thought the fence was a smart move. If you weren’t careful, something could happen. You had to take certain measures. You had to protect what you loved.

  Spikey’s tongue lolled and dripped. He was a huge dog, a hundred pounds or more, but he was gentle.

  Miriam called out to him. You thirsty?

  Spikey turned, and when he saw Miriam, he seemed to recognize, to remember her. He broke out into an excited run, bounding into the street. But then something else caught in his joints. His wrinkled face changed, and his ears sharpened to points. The short hair along his back stiffened to a ridge of hackles, and instead of running, he leapt, and it wasn’t Miriam he was after. It was Pete. Miriam caught a glimpse of Pete in Spikey’s mouth, and within her field of vision, things moved in ways they shouldn’t have. The pavement flowed like water, like a current that carried Miriam back not only in space but also in time. She was in her house again, and this day slipped back to another horrible day when Miriam was stirring soup how many years ago, and the phone rang, and it was a stranger, and the TV was on, and there was so much noise, Miriam couldn’t even tell that then, like now, she was the one screaming.

  Somehow Pete got loose from Spikey. Miriam didn’t see this. It all happened so fast, and she didn’t know it, but as soon as Miriam caught sight of Pete in Spikey’s mouth, she’d closed her eyes tight, and in her mind, everything was too loud. There was too much salt in the soup, and she was on the phone, and some woman was saying they’d found a body, that it might be Evie.

  So Miriam didn’t see Pete break away and run up the electric pole. And he was crouched at the top, twenty-five feet up in the air, his mouth open like a gargoyle’s. At the base of the pole, Spikey circled and whined.

  Miriam was still in the street, and after some time, she came back to herself, back to the spot where she was rooted, the paper clenched in her hand. A pickup was coming. People drove too fast down Quinby Place. Miriam had phoned the police several times to tell them so. She’d leash-trained Pete so he’d know to use the sidewalk instead of running across the street. But now Miriam was the one in the middle of the road, and she should have moved. She should have gotten out of the way, but instead, she stayed where she was, and as the truck got closer, she held up the hand that still held the newspaper as if she had the power to stop anything.

  The man’s window was down, and as the truck rolled toward her, he leaned out and spit at the pole and said, That your dog?

  Already, Spikey was tired of running himself around in circles. Pete was so high up in the air that from certain angles, you could barely see him. Spikey trotted out into the street. When he heard the man’s voice, he jumped up and put his big front paws on the door, looking to be pet.

  After a kitty cat, ain’t you? the man said. He reached out a rough hand and patted Spikey hard on the head.

  Miriam let out a yelp. Her voice shook, but her face was dry. I think he’s hurt, she said.

  The man wore a John Deere hat and blue suspenders. He growled. He’ll be all right. Animals are tough.

  He gave Spikey one last bop on the head. It’s in their nature, he said, and then the tires were rolling again, perilously close to both the dog and Miriam.

  Miriam watched him drive on. The back of the truck was full of junk, a scarred end table, a stationary bike that looked oddly human, like a girl in pig tails. So much looked like what it wasn’t.

  Miriam tried to see Pete at the top of the pole, but the sun was higher, brighter now. The cicadas were tuning. More time passed than should have before Miriam did what she should have done to begin with, and if it weren’t for Pete letting out a low and miserable yowl, she might not have moved at all. But when Miriam heard that call, the very sound of fear and pain, her feet moved and moved quick.

  She ran over to Cathy’s house, and Spikey followed, close on her heels, and even though he was the one who started this whole mess, he and Miriam now seemed to be working as a team, each doing their part in getting Cathy to the door. Miriam knocked hard and hollered, and behind her, Spikey whined and let out a few desperate barks.

  Despite the racket, the door stayed closed, and there was a certain stillness, the sense of no one home.

  Miriam whimpered. It wasn’t like her to whimper, but sometimes Miriam wasn’t herself anymore. Her hands were sweating, and she was wiping them down the front of her thin nightgown when she felt the cell phone in her pocket. It had been Tommy’s, her grandson’s, idea, the cell phone. In case Miriam fell, Tommy said, or something.

  Miriam could imagine falling—on the back stairs, for example, where she sometimes forgot there were four steps instead of three. It was the or something that sometimes worried Miriam. She put it out of her mind or tried to, this nonspecific category of impending doom.

  The phone was old-fashioned, but supposedly easier for senior citizens to operate. It felt heavy in Miriam’s pocket. She opened it and punched the numbers.

  The operator answered. What is your emergency?

  For a minute, Miriam was confused. Her mind flashed to Alex Trebek, and the glare of the studio lights, and the way that everything was answered with questions. Miriam liked words and letters and before and after phrases. Bobby was the one who liked Jeopardy!.

  Hello? the operator said. Are you hurt?

  Earlier, when Miriam was in the street, she hadn’t been able to move, and now she felt as though she couldn’t speak. She tried hard, and something came out, and she couldn’t have said later what it was, that she said, I lost Evie. Was something happening to her? Was she having a stroke?

  Hey, are you okay?

  In Miriam’s mind, the words became like a chant, one of Evie’s cheers. Hey, hey, are you okay?

  Miriam felt the hand on her shoulder. She jumped at the touch, and some distant part of her expected to see her daughter there, not as Evie must look now, but as she had looked at seventeen, blonde hair in a tease, those big bright plastic earrings that Miriam had hated. Now, as Miriam had seen on TV and even at the grocery store, kids were piercing and tattooing every part of their bodies and the giant yellow circles that Evie hung from her ears didn’t seem so bad. Miriam shouldn’t have fussed the way she did. You’re the one, Bobby had said during one of their discussions. You’re the one who ran her off.

  Evie, Miriam said, even though it wasn’t Evie. She knew that. It was the girl from down the street. Ann was the girl’s name. Ann something or other. Like always, Ann Something-or-Other was dressed in her overalls and her sunhat, and because Miriam herself liked to garden, she’d passed what was a not altogether generous judgment of Ann with her zinnias and her poor choice of roses and the beds that grew more weeds and grass than anything, and now that Ann was in front of her, now that Ann was so clearly and distinctly not Evie, Miriam had the impression that Ann was playing some trick on her.

  I’m fine, Miriam said.

  I heard you, Ann said.

  The operator was talking. Tell me what happened, she said. Tell me what hurts.

  Everything, Miriam said, and though nothing had really happened to her, what she said finally, for the first time in a long time, seemed true and right. She clo
sed her eyes and opened them again, and the edges of things seemed sharper. From here, she could see Pete. She could see his tail whipping. My cat, she said. He’s stuck on a pole.

  First came the police and then a fire truck and then a second fire truck. Over again, Miriam told the story of what happened. The paper should have been thrown onto her porch, but instead, it was thrown out into the street. That’s how they did it now. That’s where the world was. And she’d had to go get it. Pete—

  And here, the cop stopped her. The cat? he said. Pete is the cat. Is that correct?

  Miriam nodded. Pete had followed part of the way, and Spikey—

  She paused, waiting to confirm that Spikey was the dog, but the cop said nothing, so Miriam went on. Spikey is never out of the fence.

  Never say never, the cop said. He grinned and then caught himself. Then?

  And then, Miriam said. This part was hazy, but she didn’t tell the cop so.

  Don’t you know? Bobby had said. You have to be careful what you tell the police.

  But Miriam hadn’t known, and she’d told the cops that Evie’s birthday was coming up. She’ll be eighteen, Miriam said, thinking she was providing information, thinking she wanted to be as helpful as possible. Bobby told her later she should have kept her mouth shut because the police hadn’t looked so hard after that. Evie wasn’t a missing person so much as a girl who’d left home a few weeks early.

  And then, Miriam said, Spikey got Pete in his mouth, but Pete got loose and ran up the pole, and now there they were. Pete was hurt. She was sure of it.

  There was a whine to her voice and even to her own ears, Miriam seemed to move quickly and unexpectedly from patience to hysterics.

  The cop closed his notebook and said something into his radio that Miriam didn’t catch. His name was Officer Marty, and he went over to Spikey. He was scratching him behind the ears, and somebody had filled a paper picnic bowl with water.