On moonless days, I just went back to the empty room, let the hurt become a part of someone else’s story . . . Once upon a time, there lived a girl named Laurelei, who was growing up with aching bones. Bones so painful, like an old woman. Blue bones, she called them, because, when the pain came, that was the color she saw. Blue-boned Laurelei . . . My words filling up those peeling gray walls, filling up the spaces between other words in old magazines, filling up the insides of candy bar wrappers and paper peeled off of jars and napkins and paper bags and thrown-away envelopes—anything I could find to write on and write with. The notebooks M’lady had promised to always buy me no longer coming. M’lady no longer coming . . . I’ll buy you something pretty.
Pieces of other people’s poems always rushing toward me.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree.
Where was Innisfree? Did the poet ever get there?
Writing and pacing and writing and pacing till the words erased the pain. The Pass comes back, Laurel. The water, the light, you and your daddy watching those fishing boats come in. Jackson. Aunt G.’s laughter coming from far off, telling you how much you favor your mama. The Pass comes back, Laurel. The Pass comes back. Till the voices quieted down and the water stopped rushing in.
Until sleep came, bringing tomorrow with it.
erase me
MOON TAKES MOST of your hunger away, to make more space for itself. Candy bars and soda, a peanut butter sandwich and some water, a bag of sour cherry balls—most days just a little bit of something was enough. By the time I’d been living for a while in Donnersville, I was thin and hollowed out. My hair hanging yellowed and clumping down over my back. Each time I saw myself in the storefront windows, I looked away real quick—thinking that wasn’t me—that girl with the clothes hanging off her that way, her cheekbones jutting out of her face, her eyes sinking in . . . Stay beautiful, my mama had said. And behind her, M’lady kept saying, I’ll buy you something pretty. I’ll buy you something pretty.
So I stopped looking at my reflection. Without the store glass to look into, all that was left to look at was the walls I walked past. So many painted walls.
On the corner of Main and West Street, there was a painting of a dark-haired girl—her eyes like hard blue stones, her mouth soft, though—pale pink lips curling up. And inside the picture were the words
SERENITY LORETTA CHAPMAN
1990–2009
YOU’RE IN GOD’S HANDS, OUR LOVE.
MAMA & DADDY
And just below the Donnersville county line, there was a white building with a DANNY TACE, ATTORNEY AT LAW sign hanging. On the side of that building, you could see a small painting of a boy with glasses and short blond hair.
DANIEL TACE JR.
1979–2009
BLESSED BE. BLESSED BE.
Then, further in town, another sign, another girl—she was dark-haired too but gray-eyed and smiling.
LESLIE.
WE LOVE YOU. NOW AND ALWAYS.
APRIL 6, 1993—UNTIL THE SWEET HEREAFTER . . .
And always, at the bottom, far in the corner, were the initials MS.
Moses Sampson.
the second coming of moses
THEY PAY ME. They tell me what to say. They give me the pictures of their kids. Sometimes they’re still mad about it. Sometimes they can hardly talk from the sadness. You got any family somewhere? he asked. He had been down the street, finishing up his painting of Ben. He was right—Ben was beautiful. Moses had painted wings on him, and there was something to the painting that made Ben look like he’d always been an angel. When Moses saw me, he stopped painting, put the cap on his spray can and came over.
He was wearing shades and pushed them up on top of his head with the back of his hand.
I looked off, didn’t say anything. The wind picked up, and I pulled my jacket tighter around me. The jacket was old, dark blue with a small hole at the shoulder. There was a patch on the pocket that said LEADERSHIP ACADEMY. I’d gotten it from the free bin at the shelter I’d stayed at a few times. It was hard not to touch that patch and wonder who the jacket belonged to before me.
I know you said your people dead and gone, but you must be somebody’s little girl, Moses said.
I’m fifteen. I’m not somebody’s little girl.
Fifteen’s not old, he said.
Not young either.
Moses said, I know. I’m just wondering when your people are gonna come looking for me, asking me to paint your mural. Could do a good job with you. I’d probably start with snow because the first time you showed up around here, snow was coming down.
I ignored him. Looked across the street at the mural he’d painted.
How come you not with your girl today?
Moses laughed. My girl? What girl?
That girl you were with yesterday. That black girl who said, “C’mon, Moses. We gotta go.”
He shook his head. That’s not my girl! That’s my crazy sister. Look how much love I put into Ben. Is that a sign of somebody who’s into girls? C’mon, now.
I looked away again. For some reason, it made me feel good that she was his sister and not his girl. And it made me feel good that he didn’t like girls, wouldn’t try to be getting something out of me.
You gonna give me two dollars, or you gonna waste my time?
You the one asking the questions about girls and whatnot. I was just minding my business, finishing up this angel. What if I said this is my part of the street now, you need to move on?
I’d keep sitting. I didn’t say “because I don’t have anyplace else to go.” Didn’t say “this is probably the end of the line for me, this piece of sidewalk in Donnersville.”
You gonna give me two dollars? I asked again. The writing hardly came to me anymore—the words were crooked and crazy. I’d forgotten how to spell easy stuff, and when the voices came, the stories got all blurry before I could even write them down.
Maybe three dollars, Moses said. You answer my question about who your people are. Three dollars will get me a hundred dollars in a few months, since you’ll be dead at the rate you sucking down that meth. I don’t even give you that long.
You see me doing meth? You see me sucking on something? I’m just trying to eat! You never seen nobody trying to eat before?
Moses shook his spray can, then turned and started walking off, back toward his sign. I’d seen that walk before. Kaylee’d walked away from me like that. I’d seen that kinda go before. That I’m done, I’m finished. I don’t know you anymore.
Marie and Charles Jesse Daneau, I said real soft. Maybe Moses didn’t hear me, because he kept walking. So I said it louder. And then he stopped. Turned around.
They live here in Donnersville? Moses reached inside his back pocket. Took out his wallet, started to open it and waited.
Marie doesn’t. I pointed up. Preacher said she’s watching over me.
Moses got quiet. After a moment, he came back over, sat down beside me, put his spray can in his bag and folded his arms around his knees. His skin was dark brown like his jacket. Maybe he was seventeen. Maybe older. He had thick black eyebrows. Dark brown eyes.
I think a lot of the ones I’m painting had some kinda roughness in their lives. Small town like this—you figure you know. He pointed to Ben. I knew him. Skateboard dude. He said when he was on his board, felt like he was flying. Moses looked at his fingers. They were covered with paint. Mostly black, but red and green too. He stared at them like he was looking for something. Knew a couple of the other kids, too.
I picked up my hat and poured the little bit of change from it into my hand. Counted it real slow and put the money in my pocket. I studied my own fingers, like I was seeing the stains on them for the first time. My fingertips were yellow, like I’d been smoking for a million years. Seems
that’s what I was always doing now—chasing the moon—trying to catch the high, trying to hold on to it. Trying to step deep into it. And disappear.
You lose your mama to meth? I could probably do something simple for her. Cheap.
I almost laughed, then quick covered my mouth with my hand. Mama never even took vitamins. The idea of Mama smoking the moon brought tears to my eyes—laughing/crying tears that I wiped away real fast.
The water came, I said. Carried her away. I got up, dumped the change from my hat into my bag and pulled the hat on over my hair. It was a dark green cotton cap. There were thick black stripes going round it. Some hat a skater kid probably lost. I need to go.
Moses looked up at me. You called me back here. Now you’re running off. Chasing your monkey.
I didn’t call you back!
Yes, you did, he said real soft. You called out your people’s names.
Far off, I could hear sirens. Otherwise, there wasn’t anybody on the street. No one walking past us. I looked down at my hands, how skinny and pale my wrists looked, my cold hands shaking, yellow fingertips uglier than anything. The moon was going out of me too fast, hurting me. I felt tired and jumpy all at once. The water came and carried her away. I heard the words moving around in my head, whispering themselves to me, then shouting. I heard the water rising up. Over me. Shook my head hard not to see again the flattened Walmart, water-stained and gone.
Moses reached in his pocket and handed me a tissue. I hadn’t known I’d been crying until I took it from him, wiped my eyes, closed them tight again.
It get all your people? he asked.
I shook my head. It was getting dark. A few cars drove past us. A girl who looked to be about Moses’s age walked by carrying a baby. Another kid was following close behind her. Younger than Jesse Jr. He looked at us, then ran and caught up with the girl.
Not my daddy. Not my brother either.
Then we need to find your brother and your daddy, don’t we?
They . . . I know where they are.
Yeah—but do they know where you are?
I didn’t answer. Just sat down again and pulled my legs up, wrapped my arms around them and stared out at the street. My face itched. I held tight to my own hands to keep from scratching. My teeth hurt like someone had tried to hammer them deeper into my gums. I tried to take my mind off of everything, tried to figure out how much more begging I’d have to do before I had enough money to head over to the Donnersville House, where the guy selling didn’t give anybody a break the way T-Boom did. Mostly I was going over to the Donnersville House. Closer. Moon faster to come by there. No long walking to T-Boom. But when I didn’t have enough money, I went back, begging T-Boom for a break.
Streetlamps were flickering on. Looked like lightning bugs the way they hesitated for a long time, flickering on and off like they were waiting for the right signal from somewhere. Ben’s face flickered pale and dark again—over and over.
I gotta go, I said to Moses. The streetlights were all the way on now. Even with them, the street was dark, shadowy.
Stuff’s hard to get off of. But you’re young. It won’t be deep for you. How long you been using—a few months?
Like you know. You just painting signs. You don’t know.
I see you in snow, he said again. Snow falling all around you. I see the flakes becoming your hair.
He pulled his wallet out of his bag and opened it. I thought he was going to take out some money, but instead he pulled out a picture of a woman. She was dark like him, pretty.
Wanna know where she is? I looked at him, and he pointed up. County sent me and my sister here to Donnersville. Living with white folks we never seen in our lives. But they fed us, dressed us, took us to church and schooled us. My sister is everything they could pray for in somebody who “they gave a new life to.” They’re still trying to figure me out, though. So don’t say “like you know.” ’Cuz, truthfully, baby sis—you’re the one who don’t know. He snapped his finger at me, then put the picture back in his wallet.
How? I whispered. My voice sounded like it was coming from somebody else. A faraway somebody.
How what?
How’d she . . . die?
Moses got quiet. Felt like a long time passed before he answered.
Her heart stopped when I was five. But she’d been doing meth for a while before that, so the way I figure it, her heart had stopped working, stopped loving, long before it stopped beating.
I painted her with a rainbow—but I put the rainbow way in the distance and her reaching toward it. I just wrote “Mama.” No years. No God or Love stuff. Just “Mama.” It’s back in Fort Chester. Where we lived before we came here. First one I ever did.
He pulled three new dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to me. My hand was shaking as I took the money.
My sister said, “You can’t save that girl, Moses. You don’t have magic powers.” And you know what? I bet she’s right. I bet you gonna head right over to wherever it is you go and get high. I bet you gonna spend the rest of the spring sitting in front of this closed-up building growing more and more invisible to people.
Then what? I said.
Then you die, my lovely. He said it matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then somebody’s gonna tell your daddy about the queer kid over in Donnersville who can paint a memory on a wall—just pay him for the painting, and the county will find him a wall. The county’s happy to fill up empty walls with meth angels. Part of their antidrug thing.
They see me, I said. I’m not invisible.
They see a meth head. And some of them maybe see a little bit of a girl who used to be you in there. But most of them see a meth head and keep on walking because they got their own problems. That’s what my sister said to do—keep on walking. And wait for your daddy to come looking for you with a picture of you.
Then how come some of them give me money if I’m so invisible?
Because they’re hoping they’ll give you enough to make you disappear. They hope they can walk by here one day and not see you. And when you’re gone—even though they know in their hearts it’s because you died on that crap, they can make believe you got clean and their little coins helped it happen. That’s why.
He got up and brushed off the back of his jacket.
The strangest part of it is I’m already seeing you as a memory. Already seeing you fading on a wall . . . and I don’t even know your name yet. Makes me sad for you.
You don’t even know me. Just ’cuz you give me this money doesn’t—
I do know you. You’re disappeared just like a lot of us. Invisible. Just like a lot of us! Hated. Just like a lot of us! Don’t tell me I don’t know you. Your pain is SO not new.
He got up, put his bag on his shoulder. There were some paintbrushes sticking out of it. I could hear cans rattling inside.
What’s your name, anyway?
He looked at me. He had a way of looking that made him seem old. I could almost see what he’d be like in fifty years—gray haired, wrinkled, with those same intense eyes.
I didn’t say anything.
You still have one?
Laurel.
Moses nodded. Pretty name. Laurel Donald—
Daneau!
Laurel Daneau. Your people must have loved you lots to give you a name like that. You even know what Laurel is?
I’m not stupid.
Stays green forever, he said, like he hadn’t heard me. Even when there’s winter all around it. Sits there like some kind of promise of spring. He looked at me. I bet there’s still some spring in you, Ms. Daneau.
He started walking away again. I watched him. He walked real slow, his head down, his whole body bending against the night and late spring Donnersville wind. I shivered thinking about what he’d sa
id, thinking about summer and wondering if I’d live to see it.
daneau’s girl
RAIN CAME HARD that first time I went into rehab, and by late afternoon, small rivers were moving along the sides of the building, puddling all around me. I sat up against the hardware store, shivering in my coat, my hat pulled down, my sign HOMELESS AND HUNGRY perched and sogging against my knees. The street was empty. The sky near black with clouds. I listened to the voices inside my head, the story of a girl skipping home through a big field—sunflowers all around her. I’d never seen a sunflower in real life. The story faded in and out of my brain. I shivered hard, trying to hold on to it—hold on to the sun coming down in that girl’s field, the warmth all around her. Moses’s eyes came to mind, the warm brown of them, and I tried to hold that thought too, him sitting next to me, us just talking. I bet there’s still some spring in you . . . But soon, the warm brown and the soft words faded out of my brain and the rain was back, gray and cold.
A police officer stopped in front of me, dark shades hiding his eyes, a dollar bill hanging from his hand. Felt like I had to look up forever to finally see the top of his head, and when I did, I noticed how he’d tipped his hat forward. Clear plastic was covering the hat, and I thought that was strange—all the rain falling and the only thing protected from it was his hat, his long black coat left to soak up all that water.
Ladies’ shelter no more than five blocks from where you’re sitting, he said, holding the dollar out to me a minute longer. I didn’t reach for it. I wasn’t stupid enough to take money from a cop that way.
Beneath a Meth Moon Page 6