Dark Song

by Gail Giles

  I repeated Dad’s earlier string of curse words in my head and directed them his way. Wasn’t this child abuse? Slavery? Something I could call the authorities about?

  I lurched to my feet and headed straight for the shower, hoping hot water would ease my misery. No deal. Mom was in the one bathroom. Steam billowing out over the plastic shower curtain.

  “Save some hot water for someone else,” I shouted.

  Mom stuck her head from around the curtain. “What?”

  “There’s only a thirty-gallon tank. I know because you and Dad used it all up last night and I had to shower in cold water.”

  “Just let me rinse out my hair.”

  It was too late. The steam was gone and Mom shrieked when the hot water turned cold on her head.

  Crap. I had no idea how long it would take for that thing to reheat. I went back to bed.

  Mom came in wearing shorts and a tee. “Your dad has gone to Home Depot to get stuff for the door and paint and brushes.”

  “I’m too thrilled,” I snarked.

  “Since I know you’re cranky about the shower and that’s my fault, I’ll let that slide. But Ames, if we are going to make it through all” — she shrugged and waved her hands in the air helplessly —“this, you have to lose the lousy attitude. It’s bad enough without listening to your constant whining.”

  Fine, I won’t whine. I won’t say anything to her, then.

  “Now, get up and let’s get to work.”

  I stayed put.

  Chrissy piped up. I had no idea she’d been awake. “If Daddy isn’t here with paint and brushes, how is there any work yet?”

  Finally, the voice of reason.

  “Your sister and I have to wipe down all the walls and ceilings with bleach to kill the mold and mildew. If we don’t, it’ll come right back through the new paint.”

  What was that new and colorful word Dad had used this morning? Shitfoot. I think it was the feeling you got when you’d just stepped in it.

  “Chrissy, go outside and play. I know you’ll be hot, but the bleach is bad for you to breathe,” Mom said. “First there’s juice and donuts. Dad got those last night on the way home from Marc’s.”

  Mom turned to me. “Ames, you might be interested to know that Marc has offered to help on a regular basis. He doesn’t have a job, his home-schooling keeps him flexible, and he says helping out will keep him from being bored. He wants no payment except meals when he’s here. Awfully generous, don’t you think?” Her expression was a mystery.

  So Marc would be here today. That meant I’d have to suffer the cold shower so I could wash my hair. No makeup, though. That would look like I was trying. I had learned a lot at the Em Academy.

  I wore a thick pair of yellow rubber gloves and swabbed the walls in long stripes when Marc and Dad strode in. Marc dropped his bags of tools on the floor and hurried over to me.

  “Watch out. You’re getting chemical burns.” He guided me with a hand on my elbow like he was Ashley Wilkes and I was Miss Scarlett and put my hands under the tap. After washing the gloves he folded the tops back into a cuff. “Now when you lift up, the bleach will spill into the cuff and not run onto your arms.”

  I glanced around to see if Mom and Dad were watching this show of concern. Getting the idea that I might be valuable to someone. Nope. I guess they were in the bedroom or outside where the bleach fumes wouldn’t hurt them.

  Marc pulled my arms under the spigot and let the cold water run a long time, then gently rubbed soap on the already reddened places, then rinsed again. “Do you have some kind of, I don’t know, what’s the word for that greasy kind of medical stuff — not lotion. Oh, unguent? Is that it?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The lotions and potions are about the only thing we unpacked besides the sleeping bags.” And the towels. Mom couldn’t release all her thick, luxurious towels.

  “Show me.” It was a gentle command. But it was a command, not a request. Why did my head go swimmy?

  I took him to the bathroom and he spread the gooey stuff on my arms, holding my rubber-gloved hands and rolling my arms back and forth to find any red places that might be hiding from him.

  “I thought about you all night,” he said. “You shouldn’t be doing this kind of work. Your parents could give you something else to do. I watched last night. They treat you like a servant.”

  How was I supposed to play hard to get when he was reading my mind?

  “You should go fix my mom’s gloves. She didn’t make cuffs, either,” I pointed out.

  “She can take care of herself,” Marc said. “I can take care of you.” He stepped back, stared into my eyes, assessing. He studied my face. I think he found what he was looking for, because his mouth relaxed into a half smile. “I’ve got the… means.”

  “Huh?”

  He leaned in close. His breath was warm against my cheek. “I’ve got a handgun on me.”

  My eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. Was this another test? Had I passed?

  “It’s okay, I have a concealed weapons permit.”

  “I thought you couldn’t get one of those unless you were twenty-one,” I whispered.

  “I’m twenty-two. But I tell everyone I’m younger.”

  I leaned back to look at him. Now I was assessing. Yes, he could be older. He wasn’t lying. I felt sure he wasn’t.

  “I look young and when I try to hang with people my age, I get the shit beat out of me. In fact, that’s why I started buying guns.” His eyes still never left my face. Still watching, testing, evaluating.

  Why would he tell me this? Why not? He said he had a permit. He was legal. If I backed away, he would know I wasn’t the girl he wanted. If I said nothing… that dark thing thrummed in me. I heard its hum in my ears.

  A rush of cold then hot took over me. My mouth filled as if I had just bitten into sweet fruit. My eyes locked on to his. “Where is it?” I whispered.

  He grinned. “Ankle holster, covered by a heavy sock. Left. I’m left-handed.”

  “Can I touch?”

  “Make it quick. Your parents are going to wonder what’s going on in here.”

  I squatted and reached out for his left ankle. There it was. Compact and hard.

  And the most insane part — it didn’t scare me. It excited me like nothing ever had.

  It flashed through my head that the gun thrilled me more than Marc did. Until now, I had no power. Now I had an ally. I had secrets. I could betray.

  I wanted to howl like Em and I had when we were high. As I stood, I slid my hand up Marc’s leg until it rested on his hip. My fingertips shook with my forwardness.

  “That’s… ” I whispered.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Nobody knows it but you, but you’re the big dog on the front porch when you’re carrying.” My eyes widened. Not the dogs going crazy barking in the backyard, but the big dog on the front porch.

  I didn’t know Marc. I didn’t know why he picked me. I didn’t care. I had to have him. He knew me. He’d found me. I’d out-Em’d Em in the wild boy department. That dark that lived in me would slither from its cage. Would be unleashed. I would be new.

  It took us most of the day to wipe down all the walls and ceilings. Marc brought me protective glasses and a hat when I stood on the ladder and swiped at the ceiling.

  “You need to let the bleach dry completely. Overnight. Let this place air out, too. I think you guys should call it a day,” Marc suggested. “I’ll go get a bucket of chicken if you like and you can go to sleep early. We can get this whole place painted inside tomorrow if we push it.”

  “This hasn’t been pushing it?” I asked.

  “Sure. You’ve been pushing hardest of all. Your dad and I need to kick in a little harder. We’ve spent most of our time at Home Depot, while the real work has been going on here.” He gave me a fake shoulder punch.

  I wanted to crawl up his body. I wanted to drag him into the shower with me.

  “Everybody outside. Breathe fresh air. I’l
l bring chicken and aspirin.” He looked at Dad.

  “You’re a take-charge kind of kid, aren’t you? I like that.” He handed Marc some money. “I’m too old for this.”

  We followed Marc out. Mom and Dad sat on the porch step, and I stretched out under the tree with Chrissy.

  “Am I in detention?”

  “No, you’re in heaven,” I said. “I’m in hell.”

  “But we’re not dead,” Chrissy said.

  “Speak for yourself,” I told her. But the honest truth was that I was finally starting to feel alive again.

  When Marc got back with the chicken, we had a picnic outside. Dad stretched out on his back, cradling his head in his laced fingers. “I’d forgotten how warm it got so soon. The summers are brutal.”

  Marc sat next to Dad, his forearms resting loosely on his bent knees. “None of these houses have duct work for central air. You’re going to need a couple of window units — you know, air conditioners.”

  Dad sat up. “There’s no money in the budget for those. Those things run up the electric bill like grease through a goose.” Dad was reverting to Southern-speak in less than a day.

  “Box fans, then. At least for the bedrooms. If you plan on sleeping, you need something to cancel out the street noise around here.”

  Marc had a point. It was a far cry from our quiet zone in Boulder, buffered by landscaping, purring cars, and people with insulated lives. This neighborhood was a carnival. People came and went all day, sat on porches and in yards. Souped-up junkers roared, loud music poured from boom boxes or out of open windows — hip-hop, rap, Tejano, and country all blending to a Babel-like cacophony. Loud voices arguing, shouting out their frustrations at living here, I supposed.

  I tuned back in to Dad as he laid out the game plan. “Ames, you and Mom will paint the inside while Marc and I scrape the outside of the house.”

  Had he gone crazy? Or had the bleach fumes gotten to me and I was hearing things? If I heard what I thought, I didn’t have to worry about Dad anymore — Mom would brain him with one of those paint cans.

  “Um, Mr. Ford,” Marc said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but if all of us work on the inside painting, you’ll be able to move your furniture inside. That way you’ll be much more comfortable with your own belongings and your beds. You’ll rest better, you know.”

  Dad pulled the straw back and forth through the plastic top of his Coke. The squeaking noise made my head feel like something inside it was leaking out of my ears. Someone was making an effort to take care of me, and it appeared Dad was deciding if I was worth the effort.

  “That’s a good idea, Marc. But we don’t have beds and mattresses. We sold all that. The girls will have to share a room and that means twin beds, and Mrs. Ford and I are going to have to make do with a double in that postage-stamp room of ours.”

  He fiddled with his straw again. Couldn’t he stop with the squeaking straw? The pressure in my head was going to make my eyes pop out and splat on the ground.

  “Let’s call it a day. We can’t do much until the walls dry out from the bleach water. I’ll go buy mattresses if Marc will take me.” He looked at Mom. “You could take our car to buy sheets and rugs and order blinds. Don’t forget the blinds have to be white like the walls.”

  Mom looked up. “I can handle that. I have the measurements. Just get the mattresses and box springs that have the screw-on legs so we don’t have to buy bed frames.”

  “Hold it,” I said. “I don’t even get to pick the color for my room?” I ached for the so-soft-you-almost-couldn’t-tell-it-was-there lavender color of my old room.

  “Nope,” Dad said. “All the walls have to be white. Blinds have to be white. The outside is going to be white with beige trim, so it doesn’t fade. That’s how rental houses have to be. Pretty much no personality allowed.”

  “Okay…” I started thinking. No personality. A clean slate, right? “I want stuff that’s all white, too. Sheets, bedspread, rug, whatever you get, it has to be totally white.” That would work. I was about to reinvent myself.

  “Ames, get over yourself. I need to find what’s on sale. I can’t run all over looking for…” Mom stopped, but her anger kept rising. “You’re in no position to be making custom orders anymore. None of us are. You can stay here and put the pots and pans and dishes in the cupboards. Hang clothes in the closets.”

  She may as well have said, Breathe the poison air for a few more hours. Maybe that will put us out of our misery.

  I scowled at her, then glanced at Marc. He wasn’t looking at Mom, but he was listening. He was pissed.

  Mom showered, again, and had Chrissy in tow as she came into the kitchen to get the keys. I was shelving coffee mugs, chucking them roughly into the cupboard, as Mom moved toward me. “Your attitude is certainly not appreciated here. Why don’t you try actually being helpful, instead of being such an ungrateful little bitch?”

  She had never called me a name like that. It stung more than I imagined possible.

  Couldn’t all this just stop? I didn’t want to fight all the time. I was so tired.

  “Mom.” I turned to her. “Don’t. Please don’t be like this.”

  Mom shut her eyes and her shoulders slumped. I stepped forward and reached out to hug her.

  “Don’t!” It was that hard, angry whisper. “Take your share of the responsibility and get over yourself. I’m sick of carrying the rest of you on my shoulders.” She snatched her keys and spun out of the kitchen.

  After she left, I shook too hard to pick up the plates that I needed to put away. There was a place inside, a place that used to love Mom, that felt empty now.

  Is that what love is, something that slinks away in the night when everyone is busy looking out for themselves? Had we only loved each other when it was easy?

  I was still unpacking kitchen items when Dad and Marc drove up with mattresses and box springs. “Let’s leave them on the porch,” Dad said.

  Marc put one finger to his head, then pushed it up and down through his hair. A nervous tic I was to see often. “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea….” He looked up and down the street.

  “Oh,” Dad said. “I keep forgetting where I am. Okay, in the living room with everything.”

  They lugged the stuff in and left the plastic wrapping on, but I stretched out on one of the twin sets anyway.

  Dad popped open a can from a six-pack of beer. “You have brothers and sisters?” he asked Marc.

  “Not here. They’re still with my mom. I moved here when I got…” Marc stopped. He looked squarely at Dad. “I got to be a real handful when Mom and Dad divorced. I started running with a bad crowd. We all decided it would be best for me to come here and live with Dad. Be home-schooled, go to church with Dad, get away from my friends in California. Straighten myself out.”

  Dad nodded. “I certainly understand that. Trying to get a new start. In a new place.” He chugged the rest of his beer and popped another.

  Painting the inside of the house went fast with four of us working. Marc and I did my room first, then the bathroom and the kitchen. Mom and Dad did the hall, their room, and the living room. It was late when we finished and everyone was beat.

  “I’m too tired to bring in the box springs for the beds. Let’s just spread the mattresses out on the floor and sleep on them here,” Dad said.

  Marc slid a look to me. “I’m okay. Why don’t you let me put Ames’s and Chrissy’s beds together?” He turned to Chrissy. “Hey, Bear Herder, you can help me put the sheets on, while Ames takes a shower. I’ll bet you’ve been wanting to help.”

  Chrissy, bored from playing alone for days, was up like a shot and full of smiles.

  “You are… beyond great,” I told Marc. “I’m heading to the shower first, then I’ll help.”

  When I trekked out of the shower, the ugly room had already been turned into a fairy tale. I saw a small white rug next to a twin bed pushed against the wall. The bed was made with white sheets and a single pillow, an
d a white bedspread draped down to the floor, hiding the metal legs of the box spring. A single pink rose rested against the pillow. I knew they bloomed outside the window of this room, but Marc had taken the trouble to leave a message.

  A message. That he might be more to me than an avenue to power and danger? Someone who might give me the affection and care that I could no longer find?

  “We had to work real fast on your bed so he could be gone before you came out,” Chrissy said.

  “Thanks — it’s great,” I said. Almost a whisper. Mom hired a decorator to do my room in Boulder, but it didn’t make my head and heart race like this. I had been so naive then. I thought Mom had done all that to make me happy, but she had just thrown money at someone to have a showcase bedroom.

  “Can you help me with my bed?”

  I looked over. Marc had screwed the legs onto Chrissy’s bed and set the mattress on the springs, but she was on the mattress falling onto her little butt trying to tug the fitted sheet into place.

  “Wow, you went blue.” Understatement. Everything was neon blue with yellow and purple flowers. A color riot in one corner and hospital sterile in the other. I picked Chrissy up and set her on the floor. As I made her bed I smiled. Mom and Dad had drained my world of color, but Marc was bringing it back. One little color at a time.

  TRUTH OR DARE

  The next morning, Marc drove up in his old truck and knocked politely on the door.

  “Marc, it’s Sunday. You can take a day off,” Dad said, even though Marc was obviously not dressed to paint.

  “Yes, sir. I meant to ask last night, but I forgot. Would you mind if Ames comes to church with my dad and me and then has dinner at the house?”

  Dad had finally eased the door back and let Marc inside.

  “Dinner?” Mom asked. “How long does your church last?” I could tell from her expression she was imagining snake handling and huge women falling convulsively to the floor while speaking in tongues.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Ford. The noon meal on Sunday is still called dinner in this part of Texas. I can have Ames back by two.”

  “I’ll get changed,” I said, showing a little Em-style preemptive strike.