Paloma

Continued from "Tequila Sunrise" and "Salt on the Rim."

“Can I play on the monkey bars today?” Paloma asks.

The playground stretches in front of them: an ancient thing, untouched by safety concerns. Vibrant paint peels to reveal shiny metal. It feels familiar to Lori, and that’s why she insists on coming here, even though there are four other parks closer to their apartment. Familiarity is a luxury.

“If you can reach ‘em today, then sure,” Lori replies. “If you fall, just spit on it.”

“Gross,” Paloma says, then nods. She tugs at the hem of her favorite sweater, mustard yellow with a big teal dove embroidered on the front. It’s starting to pull, and soon she won’t be able to wear it at all. Maybe Lori can make it into a cute pillow. Better yet, maybe Lori can hire someone to do it for her. It’s something Beth would’ve done.

“Hey, is there anyone here you like?” Lori knows from Paloma’s expression that she hasn’t phrased the question right, so she tries again. “I mean, do you have any friends here you might want to invite over? Like for a play date?”

“I like everyone,” Paloma says, and runs off to join an in-progress game whose purpose is only understood by children.

Lori realizes that without Paloma, she is alone. A dozen mothers mill around the perimeter of the playground, their pristine New Balance sneakers crunching over the bark. Most of them wear tasteful pea coats in shades of coal, pewter, and cocoa. There are a couple of outliers — a jade and eggplant — but they still feel restrained compared to the bright pink blazer Lori wears over her favorite gray sweater.

Lori stands off to the side, afraid to break into one of the established groups. How would that conversation even go? ‘Hey, have you ever thought about who your kids’ godparents are, and what that means? My sister didn’t. How about one of your kids comes over for a play date? Draw straws. I’ll wait.’

Her cell phone cuts through the silence of the morning. She has to get a new bag, one that won’t swallow everything she owns. Everything about her feels loud and obnoxious.

“I think it’s in your pocket,” the mother with the eggplant coat gives her a helpful smile. Lori groans and retrieves her iPhone from her blazer.

“Got an email from one of our little lovebirds. Whitney wanted to make sure you were doing okay. What should I tell her?” Nicole doesn’t bother with pleasantries.

“That I’m fine, of course.”

“Really?” Nicole asks.

“I can’t stop thinking about how Paloma will never know how great her mom was. She’ll never taste Beth’s triple chocolate brownies, or listen to her read the Harry Potter books, or make snow angels at Christmas. I have to do all of those things, except I almost put Kahlua in my last batch of brownies, and I can’t get Hagrid’s voice right, and my last snow angel looked disturbingly phallic.”

“You won’t let anyone forget Beth, but don’t suffocate yourself with the weight of her memory. Plus, I’m pretty sure Kahlua bakes out, but maybe Google it just in case? No one can ever get Hagrid’s voice right except Robbie Coltrane. Make snowmen instead.”

The two women make small talk until Paloma falls. It happens in slow motion: tripping over herself and splaying out in the bark. Lori hangs up on Nicole mid-sentence, watching her delicate niece right herself, inspect the skinning knee, and spit on it. Paloma looks up and waves at Lori.

“I think it worked!”

Unfazed, Paloma skips over, dark hair a tangled mess. She has Beth’s button nose, but her dad’s light blue eyes. Her smile is entirely her own.

“Look what I found!” Paloma chirps, cupping her hands around a small wooden heart.

“Cool,” Lori takes it from her. “Uh, you didn’t put this in your mouth, did you?”

Paloma shakes her head.

“Good, ‘cause you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Can we get hot chocolate?” Paloma asks.

“Sure,” Lori says. Paloma grabs her hand and Lori doesn’t flinch this time. It feels like a tiny victory.

She looks back at the wooden heart and a long-buried memory surfaces. It is a happy memory, one with Beth. They buried treasure together, when Lori was a kid and did everything Beth told her to without a second thought. Why did they bury it when they could have gone looking for it?

Grief has taken root in her, a dull throbbing ache that resides under the surface of her skin. Its only benefit is that it offers her perspective, gives her new acuity with which to view past events. At the funeral, Lori experienced an odd revelation about why Beth stopped lending her clothes. Beth’s were too adult, too sophisticated for a high school kid, and then too professional for a college kid. They grew apart in yards of fabric and heel height.

They buried the treasure because others might need it more than they did.

“I don’t think we should take it home,” Paloma says, pointing to the heart. “It belongs to the park.”

They find a small patch of dirt near the pond. The earth is damp, and their hands get dirty from digging. Lori tucks Paloma’s hair behind her small, perfect ear, and leaves a smear of dirt behind.

When the hole is large enough, Paloma places it in with the stoic reverence of a child mimicking adult behavior.

“When you plant a garden, you start with earth and seeds,” Lori says. “We’re lucky, because we live somewhere with good soil and good weather. We’ll plant it here and love will grow.”

“What kind of love?”

“Does it matter?” Lori smiles.

“Can it be like the way I love Mom and Dad and you?”

Lori can’t look at her. Paloma has seen too many tears. She has watched Lori’s grief beach itself, an immobile leviathan. Instead, she takes the child in her arms and hugs her.

“Of course it can,” Lori whispers.


Written by: Erin Justice
Photograph by: Pekka Nikrus

Good Girl

We made eye contact through the chainlink fence as soon as I stepped out of the truck. No barking, I thought. That’s a plus. I held her gaze as I slammed the car door, hiked up my pants, and bent down to tie my shoe. Every fine-tuned muscle taut, ears and tail intact, the color of milky coffee. “Good girl,” I said to her.

Before I could knock on the front door of the red-bricked house, it opened. The man standing there was a head shorter than me, as most people are, and his cheeks were rough with red-flecked stubble.

“Heard you pull up,” he said.

I stuck out my hand. “Ben.”

“Curt,” he said, shaking it. “Come on in. She’s outside.” The house was dark, save for the TV flickering a muted football game. “Beer?” he asked, heading for the kitchen.

“Sure, thanks.”

He handed me a bottle, and motioned his toward the back door.

Standing on the deck, I could smell freshly cut grass, but it must’ve been a neighbor’s, since his yard was about as kempt as his facial hair.

“Holly!” he called, crouching down. “C’mere!” The dog came trotting up the steps and sat right in front of him. “Good girl,” he whispered, scratching the top of her head. She squinted her eyes and stretched her neck, tongue lapping at the humid autumn air.

I crouched down and held out my hand. “Holly,” I said. “Hey girl.” Breaking from her trance, she turned to look at me, head tilted to the right. I made kissy noises at her, and she padded over. Curt stood up and watched us, his free hand in his pocket. I glanced up at him and, in the sunshine, realized he couldn’t have been much older than me, but looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “She seems like a great dog,” I said.

He nodded, taking a sip of his beer. “The best. Holly—go get your ball.” The dog sprang from the short steps and sprinted toward a tennis ball nestled in the tall grass in the middle of the yard. Taking it in her mouth, she pivoted and ran back toward us, looking for all the world like some kind of Purina commercial. She stopped in front of me, dropping the ball at my feet. I picked it up and threw it as far as I could, marveling at her grace and speed as she launched herself off the deck, into an arc any quarterback would kill for.

“So, uh, have you gotten a lot of response to your ad?” I asked.

Curt shrugged, watching Holly race back up the steps, her sides heaving. She dropped the ball and Curt threw it again. “You’re the only one I’m considering,” he said. “If that’s what you’re wondering. Only one who seemed normal.”

“Oh,” I said, “that’s great!” Suddenly my voice seemed too enthusiastic, too loud, even in the outdoors. “Can I, uh, can I ask why you can’t have her any more?” I mentally patted myself on the back for not saying why you want to get rid of her. He obviously loved her, had obviously taken impeccable care of her for the past three years.

Curt took another sip of beer. After a moment he said, “The wife.”

“Oh. Not a dog person?” I said, trying to get the volume of my voice to match his.

Another sip. He was still watching the dog, who was now running laps around the ramshackle shed in the back corner of the yard. “She died.”

“Oh, shit, man,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged again. “It was a couple years ago.”

I managed to keep my next question to myself: Then why are you just now getting rid of your dog?

As though he read my mind, Curt looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Do you believe in reincarnation?” he asked.

What the— “Uhh,” I said, shrugging. Is there a right answer?

“Sometimes I think Jen’s soul is in that dog,” he said.

Holly had dropped the ball at my feet again, so I threw it, hoping the action exempted me from having to say anything. Didn’t seem right to tell him that in reincarnation, a soul doesn’t enter something already living.

Curt heaved a sigh, and used his forearm to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Then he turned on the ball of his foot to look at me, making eye contact for the first time since our handshake. “Don’t laugh,” he said.

“I-I wasn’t!” I said. “I won’t!” Was that a reprimand? Or a warning?

He nodded. “Look, I can’t explain it. But a couple weeks ago, I brought a woman home for the first time since Jen died, and Holly—” his voice broke, and he cleared his throat, “—and Holly walked in on us.”

I wanted more than anything to break this eye contact, mostly because I could feel nervous laughter gurgling up into my sinuses, but his eyes weren’t going to let me go.

“I gave Holly to Jen our first Christmas after getting married. Ever since that night a couple weeks ago, she hasn’t made a peep. Just stares at me all the time. I feel like I’m gonna throw up every time I look at her.”

I nodded. “That sucks, man.” I threw the ball again, and noted the feeling that I didn’t want the dog to hear what I was going to say next. “But don’t you think Jen would want you to be happy?”

Curt let out a half-grunt, half-laugh, and turned away from me. He lifted his forearm to his face again, and I suspected he was wiping away more than just perspiration.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s none of my business.” Holly was now at my feet, panting. “Well, hey, I’ll take really good care of her.”

Curt nodded, staring straight ahead.

“And if you change your mind, or you wanna visit her, just let me know.”

More nodding. Then he turned toward the door, motioning for me to follow him. “Come on. I’ll get her leash and stuff.”

A few minutes later, Holly was leaping into the passenger seat of the truck. I tied up the plastic bag of her accessories and tossed it in the back. I got into the truck and started the engine. Looking up, I saw Curt standing on his front porch, arm raised in farewell. I waved back, but he wasn’t looking at me. Holly was rapt, and as I put the truck in reverse she started to whine. Even as we drove away, she kept her eyes on Curt. And as soon as he was out of sight, she let out one long, bone-chilling howl, and then was silent.

Written by: Melody Rowell
Photograph by: Emily Blincoe

In the Darkness

 
Her mother named her Desire, then gave her up for adoption. Charlotte and Ben argued about the name as they signed the paperwork. Charlotte wanted to call her Evelyn after her sister, but Ben said they should respect the mother’s wishes.

“It’s the one thing she has from her mom,” Ben said.

“I’m her mom now,” Charlotte pleaded, but Desire stuck.

Desire grew up with no false assumptions about her birth. Her adoptive parents repeated the story constantly—how her real mother was struggling with the sin of addiction, and how Jesus brought Desire to their home to be a beacon of light in the darkness.

Desire, unaware of metaphor or of the silent darkness that is infertility, looked around for the dark wherever she went. She saw it down open manholes and on moonless nights. She saw it in her adoptive grandmother’s basement as it appeared in her nightmares. And then, in fourth grade, her Sunday school teacher Mr. George said it was time to address the darkness head on. It was time for street evangelism.

After church, the fourth graders climbed into the fifteen-passenger van with Eagle Vista Fellowship painted on the side, armed with paper tracts.

“Does everyone have their buddy?” Mr. George asked, twisting from behind the steering wheel.

Everyone did. Desire’s buddy was Brittany, who had won a medal last month for memorizing the most Bible verses. Brittany, whose blonde hair was so long she could sit on it. Brittany, whom Charlotte said had been blessed with a generous spirit, since her little brother had Down’s and was God’s special gift in difficult packaging.

93.8 THE FISH was playing a jangling praise song, and Brittany lifted her tinny voice to sing along with Mr. George. They were headed towards the part of town where Ben and Charlotte delivered meals on wheels to the needy. The front porches were crowded with junk. Some houses had broken windows or dangling shutters.

“This is it!” called Mr. George. “Stay with your buddy, and remember to pray over each house, even if the people don’t want to talk.”

Brittany ran ahead, calling for Desire to catch up. She had already scampered onto the first porch and pressed her pinky into the doorbell by the time Desire made it into the yard. Brittany rang the bell three times, but no one came. At the end of the driveway, the girls held hands as Brittany prayed over the house. Desire always kept her eyes open during prayers to see who else was peeking. Brittany wasn’t peeking. Desire looked at the sky, where she imagined God was glaring down at her for not speaking to him more sincerely with her heart. She saw a giant bird lope through the air and land on a telephone pole.

“Amen,” Brittany said.

“Look at that bird,” Desire said. “I think it’s a buzzard.”

“It’s not!” Brittany said, still speaking in her praying voice. “It’s an Eagle! For Eagle Vista! It’s a sign Jesus is blessing our work here today. We have a lot of people to reach. Why don’t you go down this side of the street, and I’ll take that side? Then we can bless twice as many houses!”

Desire, more from watching Scooby Doo cartoons than from listening to Mr. George, knew they shouldn’t split up, but she also wasn’t sure how much more of Brittany’s praying she could take in one afternoon.

“Okay, but don’t go to the next street until I catch up,” she said.

Desire shuffled her tracts as she waited on the next porch. An old lady peeked through the curtains and glared. At another house, a man thought she was selling Girl Scout cookies, but didn’t want to talk about God. Finally, at 665 Winthrop Street, someone took a tract.

The woman at the door was pale, and so skinny you could pour water into her collarbones and it would stay there. Her greasy, red hair was slicked back, and her eyes were glassy. Desire didn’t want to look at her face, so she looked at her feet.

“I like your anklet,” Desire said.

The woman laughed. “I blinged it out the best I could! Still keeps me on the porch.”

On the black plastic, a little green light blinked among stick-on rhinestones.

“What’s this paper all about?” the woman asked.

“Jesus wants to love you,” Desire said.

“About time somebody did,” the woman said. “What’s your name, church girl?”

“Desire.”

“That’s some name.”

“I’m adopted.”

“For real? Your parents told you that already? Damn.”

“Yeah. You shouldn’t say that word.”

The woman laughed again. “You come up on my porch and tell me what I can’t say?”

Desire backed down the steps into the yard.

“Do you want me to pray with you?” Desire asked, following the script she’d practiced with Brittany.

“Why not.”

Desire looked over her shoulder for Brittany, but didn’t see her anywhere. The bird flapped its wings on the pole, its feathers like long black fingers.

“Well, you gonna pray?” the lady asked.

“Um, dear Jesus, please bless—sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Charlotte,” the woman said.

Desire stared at her, straight in the eyes this time. At that moment, Desire felt Jesus was trying to tell her something: this was her real mom.

“Don’t you remember me?” Desire asked.

“No. Should I? Your church group come here before?” the woman said.

“Did you have a baby nine years ago?”

“Hey crazy, I don’t have kids!” the woman laughed.

From behind her, Desire heard a sound like the screeching of a screen door. She whipped around expecting to see Brittany leaving a house, but the noise was coming from the buzzard, swooping down into the yard.

Where was Brittany? And why didn’t her mom remember? Was Jesus not speaking to her after all?

“Can you help me find my friend?” Desire asked. “And scare off that bird? He’s freaky.”

“They’ll be after me if I leave the house.”

Desire suddenly felt sweaty. Her mother, or Jesus, one, was abandoning her again, and there were people in this neighborhood who would get you if you went outdoors. And she had abandoned blonde-haired, generous-spirited Brittany alone in this land of darkness.

“Please help me?”

“Sorry,” Charlotte said, retreating back into her house. “You’re on your own.”




Photograph By: Emily Blincoe
Written By: Dot Dannenberg