by Abby Geni
AT FOUR O’CLOCK, DARLENE PULLED up in front of Mercy Elementary School. The playground was a madhouse. Small bodies ran every which way, backpacks bouncing on their shoulders. The monkey bars were so crowded that children kept colliding and dropping to the ground. A few girls kicked on the swings, rising higher and higher, finally leaping from the apex of the arc, their silhouettes printed on the sky for a long moment as though they might float down as gently as leaves.
Darlene waved. She looked incongruous behind the wheel of the pickup truck that once belonged to our father. It was corroded around the hood and pocked by dents, prone to coughing smoke from its exhaust pipe. It did not suit Darlene’s inherent tidiness. I climbed inside, inhaling the tang of leather, gasoline, and a musky cologne that must have been Daddy’s brand. My father was a mechanic, fixing other people’s cars for a living, but his own vehicle had been a wreck of rust and nostalgia. The shoemaker’s children were never shod. In fact, the pickup survived the tornado simply because it was in such bad shape. When the storm hit, the truck was parked across town, awaiting repairs in the garage where Daddy had worked. An accidental legacy.
“Buckle your seat belt,” Darlene said.
She threw the car into gear, and we pulled away from the curb with a squeal of tires. She looked anxious. There was a suggestion of blue beneath each eye, the stamp of fatigue, underlined by the frame of her glasses. After a moment, she switched on the radio.
“—the likes of which our small town had never seen before,” the announcer said. “This kind of tornado is called ‘the finger of God,’ and for good reason. I’m sure none of our listeners have forgotten where they were on the day when—”
Darlene smacked the button again.
“Jesus Christ on a crutch,” she said. “Enough already.”
I glanced into the side mirror, watching my school recede into the distance. It would take us over an hour to reach the cemetery. My parents shared a headstone in the family plot, thirty miles outside of town. Though only Mama was actually buried there, Darlene insisted on a pilgrimage every year on the anniversary of the tornado. I did not know why, since she was not sentimental or religious, and these trips seemed to offer more heartache than comfort. Still, I knew better than to question her. Darlene’s will was an irresistible force, in this and everything else. When she wanted something to happen, there was nothing to be gained by objecting. Opposition would only lead to friction and bad feeling, and in the end, Darlene would get her way.
I sighed. To make matters worse, Jane would not be joining us at the cemetery this year. She was the family’s athlete, an exalted position that afforded her certain luxuries. She got trips to the doctor for her shin splints and ingrown toenails, whereas Darlene made do with home remedies for her periodic migraines. Jane got shiny uniforms, whereas I made do with hand-me-downs that were always too big or too small; I had never in my life walked into a store and purchased an item of clothing new. Jane had an important game today—important enough that Darlene gave her permission to skip the annual ritual. She would be on the field now, surrounded by other eighth graders in blue uniforms. She would be running hard in the heat, fearless in cleats and shin guards.
We drove past a group of oil derricks. They were working, always working, bobbing like drinking birds, their gears squeaking. Long ago, in another life, my brother explained their function to me, how they drew the oil out of the ground. We passed a field of wheat, a ramshackle farmhouse, and a rusted water tower.
Twenty miles outside of town lay the cosmetics factory, a vast gray building with small windows. There was something impersonal, even forbidding, about its aspect. Jolly Cosmetics was part makeup laboratory, part production hub. I imagined it filled with vats of mascara bubbling like cauldrons in a witch’s cave. I pictured towers of lipstick, solid and maroon, flanked by workers who whittled away at the sides, carving out tiny scrolls to place inside the kind of tubes Darlene carried in her purse. A few of our neighbors worked at Jolly Cosmetics. Everyone in Mercy lived close to the bone, and good jobs were hard to come by.
At the gravesite, no wind stirred the branches of the trees. The clouds looked as solid as though they had been baked in a kiln. Among the grass and nettles, crickets moved ceaselessly. Their bodies were deceptive. Black, shiny, and fat, they looked as though they would be slimy to the touch, but I knew they were as dry and light as paper cranes.
Darlene did not cry. She did not speak to the dead. She had not even brought our parents flowers, though fresh bouquets were laid out on many of the other headstones. My sister stood ramrod straight, her expression steely, every particle of her being telegraphing her discomfort. It was as if she were counting down the minimum number of seconds for a proper show of grief, even though no one was keeping track.
Our parents’ headstone was marble, etched with scrolling cursive. Dear Wife and Mother. Beloved Husband and Father. Mama had died in childbirth, and Daddy had perished when I was six; I had been an orphan for as long as I could remember. I had been raised by Darlene, and, for a brief but glorious time, Tucker. Mama and Daddy were words I never used, unlike my friends at school—normal kids.
I shook myself. As a rule, I tried to avoid self-pity. The pity of the whole town was bad enough without adding my own to the mix. Besides, if I ever started feeling sorry for myself, all I had to do was look over at Darlene, who had it much worse.
When the tornado struck, Darlene was eighteen years old. A senior in high school. Filled with enthusiasm and anticipation. She had just been accepted to Oklahoma University. She pinned a map of the OU campus to her bedroom wall, using thumbtacks to mark the places she wanted to visit. She often chanted the OU fight song: I’m a Sooner born and Sooner bred, and when I die, I’ll be Sooner dead. She was on the cusp of achieving escape velocity from Mercy, something she had longed for all her life.
I did not remember any of this, of course. I had heard about it from Jane, who retained vivid memories of what Darlene was like back then, bubbly and wide-eyed. I knew about the college jacket Darlene planned to buy, the sorority she hoped to pledge. I knew that she had been preparing for a career in medicine. She planned on becoming a nurse in the trauma ward of an important hospital, combining her pragmatic mind, natural calm, and the extensive medical training she would acquire at OU to do great things.
Now, however, she was twenty-two and stuck in Mercy. The sole provider for Jane and me. Carrying our world on her shoulders. She ferried us around and helped us with our homework. She kept the trailer spotless and left polite comments on the social media posts of her friends off at college, people with lives not ruined by the tornado. She worked at the grocery store—a job that was beneath her in every way.
I bent over my parents’ headstone. A tracery of grit patterned its surface, and I used my palm to wipe the marble clean. Then, in the distance, a hint of movement caught my eye. A man was standing amid the trees at the edge of the cemetery.
I straightened up, staring. Something about his posture intrigued me. He was all on his own, separate from the other mourners, furtive and slim. He reminded me of Tucker—but then, so many things reminded me of Tucker.
“Look,” I said, pointing.
Darlene did not hear me. She checked her watch.
“That’s long enough,” she said.
We made our way to the pickup truck. I threw a glance back at the woods, but the figure was no longer visible. A trick of the light. A glitch. A ghost.
THAT NIGHT, I COULD NOT sleep. Once more, a wild, reckless mood came over me, and I let myself out of the trailer alone. I crept past Darlene’s shape on the couch. I slipped on my flip-flops and tucked my flashlight into my pocket. The night was filled with insects and a hesitant breeze that seemed to change direction with each gust.
As I stepped onto the path, I heard a noise. A clatter like beads in a rain stick—I knew that sound. Everyone in the Southwest knew that sound. I sucked in a breath but did not release it. Slowly, cautiously, I s
wung the glow of the flashlight, scanning the ground until I located the rattlesnake.
It was coiled beneath a bush, too far away to strike. I watched as the creature lifted its head, its tongue dancing, sniffing the air. Its eyes were as glassy and unblinking as buttons. The sinewy neck was tattooed with whorls, the flesh rippling and swaying hypnotically. The knobs of its tail shimmered.
I felt a strange surge of pride. Everything native to Oklahoma was tough and warlike. Only the strong survived here. Our snakes came with venom and a warning signal. Our insects were armored against predators and dehydration. Our birds possessed talons, telescopic vision, and hollow bones. These animals were designed for hardship. All weakness and softness had been beaten out of their genetic lineage by the dust storms, the droughts, and the tornadoes. Disaster was as much a part of life in Oklahoma as the weather-worn sky. The crayfish were plated with complex carapaces. The coyotes were shy and clever, as elusive as dreams. The groundhogs dug deep burrows, safe from heat and wind. The turtles and frogs lived a halfway existence, dipping between tepid water and balmy air. The porcupines carried weaponry on their backs. The mule deer had lightning reflexes. The alligators were stupid but heavily armed. I was jealous of them all—their savage strength and vivid senses, their power and tenaciousness. The way they were born was the best way to be.
Even the tornado had not fazed them. The day after the finger of God scored a path through Mercy, the wild animals resumed their lives as they had always done—hunting, feeding, and mating, untouched by sorrow and shock. Only the humans had suffered—and our livestock, of course. The lazy, docile creatures confined to barns and cages. They never stood a chance. Like my father, our cows and horses had vanished into the blue.
Now, as I watched, the rattlesnake wheeled and slithered away through the grass. I was tempted to follow it, to see where it made its home. Once more, I thought of Tucker. I remembered him telling me that rattlesnakes evolved over millions of years to say only one thing: Leave me alone.
That was the moment it happened. I was standing in the dirt lane when I felt the ground shiver beneath my feet. A shock wave pulsed through the earth. The trailer doors creaked on their hinges and the trees rustled their desiccated leaves. It was as though the town of Mercy had taken a deep, shuddering breath.
A tremble. A tremor. I had never felt anything like it before. Oklahoma was not a place of earthquakes. For a moment, I thought the rattlesnake had done it—shaking its tail hard enough to move the whole world. I did not know what to make of it, and there was no one around to ask. No one in Shady Acres was awake except for me. I stood still, waiting to see if the ground would shudder again.
3
The next morning, the TV was on when I emerged from my bedroom. It was Saturday. Jane was in the shower singing off-key, her rough alto reverberating around the trailer. The light through the window was muffled by heavy clouds. Darlene wandered like a hummingbird in a garden, pausing at the coffeepot, the sink, and the fridge, at once busy and desultory, moving just to be moving. I did not think she was even aware of her restlessness; this was just how she watched TV, orbiting the living room, constrained by the small space. The entire trailer measured around three hundred square feet.
I climbed into my chair and reached for the box of cereal. On the screen, a male announcer was framed in front of a familiar backdrop. I recognized the flat gray exterior of Jolly Cosmetics, twenty miles outside Mercy. The newscaster stood in front of the building, speaking in solemn tones, his auburn hair ruffled by the wind. The volume was louder than I would have liked, clashing against the birdsong outside.
“I can’t believe this,” Darlene said.
She pointed at the screen, where BREAKING NEWS flashed in a red banner. I tried to follow what the announcer was saying. I was still weary from the previous day—the cemetery and my late-night wandering—and the man kept interspersing his monologue with words I did not recognize. Willful damage of property. Manufacturing, possessing, and transporting a destructive device.
“What happened?” I said.
Darlene folded her hand into a fist. “Boom.”
Jane emerged from the bathroom on a wash of steam, her hair turbaned in a pink towel. She paused at the table, grabbing a piece of toast from Darlene’s plate.
“Somebody let out all the animals,” Darlene said. “I didn’t even know they kept animals at the factory. I guess the scientists were doing tests on them.”
The image on the screen melted into a series of photographs. An open cage. A group of white rats. Broken glass. The hind end of a beagle escaping around a corner. A wire cage was deformed into a shape that was almost artistic, the metal charred and glittering.
“There was an explosion,” Darlene said.
“Our factory?” Jane said. “You mean Jolly?”
“Yeah. It happened last night. Some nutcase waited until all the workers were gone. There was just the janitor and a security guard. This guy—this suspect—chased out all the animals and set off some kind of explosive device.”
I remembered the tremor in the darkness the night before, the ground shimmying beneath my feet. Was it possible that I had felt the blast? The announcer reappeared on the screen, his expression serious. The factory was in bad shape, it seemed.
Then the TV showed a pool of red. There were droplets on the tile, a shard of glass with crimson smeared on the point. I felt my gorge rise. The announcer began to speculate about how the blood came to be there. None of the workers had been hurt. Perhaps an animal had been caught in the blast. Perhaps the bomber himself was injured.
“All this at Jolly Cosmetics,” Jane said. “That ain’t right.”
I SPENT THE NEXT FEW hours in transit. This was typical for a Saturday. Jane had soccer practice, and Darlene never got the weekend off. As a rule, she took every shift she could. As we drove out of Shady Acres, I sat in the truck bed. Jane had seniority, claiming the passenger’s seat. Darlene, behind the wheel, was quiet. I could see nothing but her ponytail and the occasional flash of her eyes in the rearview mirror. Jane lounged with her feet on the dash, her thumbs dancing over her phone, while I lurched and jolted over every pothole and rock. There were no seat belts back there, just the side to clutch and the curve of the wheel well to jam my body against. The radio played a country song, though I could make out only the tune, not the words, over the rumble of the tires. The truck hit a bump, and my teeth jangled. We drove past the gas station and the town’s only motel.
Mercy was a model of efficiency. It contained exactly what was needed for life in Oklahoma, no more, no less. There was a supermarket. There was one school for each age group—elementary, middle, high—and they all shared the same principal. There was a police station, a fire department with one weathered truck, and a movie theater that showed one film per week, usually several months after its initial release. The main drag offered two restaurants and a hardware store. Some of the neighborhoods were paved, while others had dirt roads and wild lawns, the houses hidden behind brambles. On the outskirts of town, there were swaths of farmland: bristling corn and luscious soybeans, some pastures lying fallow and others given over to grazing. Shady Acres lurked to the west, tucked off to the side like an embarrassment.
The flower shop had a sign in the window, reminding everyone that Mother’s Day was coming up. I experienced a familiar surge of discomfort. At school, my class had been making cards loaded with glitter and stickers. I planned to throw mine away when Ms. Watson wasn’t looking.
My mother had exited the world an hour after I was born. Placental abruption. No symptoms. Her pregnancy had been fine; the labor and delivery were normal. My father was holding me, a sticky, squalling starfish, as the obstetrician bent over my mother, palpating her abdomen. Then a geyser of blood erupted between Mama’s legs. She perished within minutes—hemorrhagic shock, an unusual blood type, not enough stock for a transfusion. The first photographs taken of me as a newborn showed my father blank with horror, Jane
with red, swollen eyes, and Tucker as pale as ash.
Darlene, who was not squeamish, had told me the details of Mama’s death more than once, always in matter-of-fact tones. Every now and then, I would ask to hear the story again—hoping, perhaps, that this time my sister might tell a different tale, one in which I had not, however unintentionally, been the cause of Mama’s demise. Darlene seemed to understand. Her voice would soften a little, and she always ended by saying, “And none of what happened was your fault.”
I did not know much else about my mother. The clear, cold facts of her death were something I could ask for and receive, but the ethereal mishmash of her life was harder to define. According to her photographs, she was a woman of generous curves and timid pastels. She had given her eyebrows to Darlene, her mouth to Tucker. Her figure offered a reasonable approximation of what Jane’s sturdy frame might blossom into when she reached adulthood.
I was not sure what Mama had passed down to me.
I did know that she began our family’s acquisition of animals. When Darlene was little, Mama purchased a used chicken coop and filled it with happy, dust-colored hens, who provided warm brown eggs every morning. When Mama was pregnant with Tucker, she hired a neighborhood boy to build a fence for a cow she had her eye on. One became two, and then four, and then an amiable herd. Every few years, a new animal would appear in the back field. The paddocks were arranged in no particular order, their layout haphazard, their fencing mismatched. There was a benevolent chaos to the place. Just after Jane came along, Mama rescued a fat gray stallion from a breeder who was about to sell him to a slaughterhouse. She named him Mojo and visited him every day, teaching Darlene and Tucker how to brush his coat and tend to his hooves.
As it turned out, the horse outlived her. Mojo mourned when she died, recovering only when Daddy bought a mare to keep him company.