M in the Abstract

by Douglas Davey

  “Dinner’s in an hour!” her mother calls.

  Once out the door and down the front steps, Mary pulls a translucent white scarf from one of the coat’s large pockets. She wraps it loosely around her slender neck and looks up at the three-floor building. Its symmetry is imperfect, but Mary still likes the looks of her new home. She spots her bedroom window—corner, second floor—the sheet still hanging down. Beside it, her mother’s window is now properly curtained.

  She walks along the building, dragging the tips of her fingers over the craggy surface of the brick. It’s old but shows no signs of serious wear, the whole building square and strong. She heads down the tree-lined road, away from her new home.

  A hundred shades of green fill the view as she walks up the slight hill toward a park she had seen on their way in. She likes the variety of houses, a product of hundreds of years of life, of construction, destruction, catastrophe, and rebuilding.

  So different

  Most of the buildings are brick, primarily red but some gold or brown. There are even some old stone houses, large and stately. She can’t say why but she finds the uniqueness of the houses to be comforting.

  Maple trees arch high above her, the thin tips of their branches swaying in the breeze. She looks up, enjoying the hypnotic movement, the rustling hush of wind through leaves. Solitude. She can imagine the trees changing color, the overlapping branches forming an arcade of orange and gold.

  Something inside her recoils at the pleasure she is taking in her surroundings. Immediately she reprimands herself in a harsh voice.

  Don’t let it trap you

  I know

  It’s no better here than anywhere else. Worse, even. It’s so much easier to let your guard down

  I know, I know, I know

  Do you?

  She realizes now that it was foolish to expect that she could hide herself under a jacket and scarf this early in September. She unwraps the scarf from around her neck, stuffing it in a jacket pocket before removing the jacket itself. She prefers the colder weather when it’s easier to hide within layers of clothes.

  As she draws alongside the park, children’s voices ring out as they play, running. She has no recollection of ever playing like that, can’t recall a time when other children didn’t scare her. And, all too clearly, she remembers how adults terrified her as a child. They were so much bigger than her, and so unknowable. She could no sooner comprehend their world than a tiny silver fish could understand the great boats that slide above it.

  A playground swing, recently vacated, sways on its shining chains. Drawn by the slow oscillation, she walks toward the swing, sitting down on the slab of black rubber. Pointing her toes inward and swinging slightly, she drags her shoes through the sand. Head pointed downward, hands gripping the chains, she watches the grains of sand parting, falling in, and parting again in the wake of her shoes.

  The hard seat of the swing becomes uncomfortable and Mary brings herself to her feet. As she rises, a high, friendly voice from beside her asks, “Can you push me?” Mary is startled; she was so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed anyone approach. A young girl, blonde, thin, and long-legged, sits down on a nearby swing. Mary freezes, unsure of what to do.

  “My Dad says it’s okay for you to push me,” the girl adds, pointing to a man nearby. “Dad!” the girl yells and her father, quite occupied by a young boy and a large, excited dog, waves in Mary’s direction, then returns his attention to his son.

  “Um, okay.” Mary goes around to the back of the young girl and pushes feebly against the cold steel of the swing’s chains. The swing wobbles forward, then rocks back.

  “Don’t push the chains,” the girl yells derisively, “push my back! Dontcha know how to push a swing?” Reluctantly, Mary places both hands against the girl’s back. The sensation of touching another person is foreign to her, and she marvels at how she can feel every bone of the young girl’s ribcage. Mary gives her a little push that sends the swing forward. “Harder!” the girl commands. Mary pushes her again and the swing arcs up and away, coming down again in a rush.

  “Okay, I can do it now. I know how to pump my legs.” With that, the girl begins moving her legs back and forth with a furious motion.

  Sensing that the girl has no more need of her, Mary turns away and begins walking home. Behind her, the young girl’s father shouts, “What do you say?”

  “Thank you,” the girl says mechanically. “Bye.”

  Mary waves and walks away.

  She was sort of sweet

  You know you can’t get that near to people

  But maybe nothing bad will happen

  Something bad always happens

  Maybe not now

  You know better than that

  I know

  Her reverie is broken by a shout from a passing car. Startled, she looks in the direction of the sound to see a carload of boys driving by. One of them has his head out of the window and shouts something incomprehensible at her as they pass. Startled, her heart jumps. When she has recovered, she can feel her right hand tingling in a familiar way. Looking down at the back of her hand, she sees tiny shadows moving just below the skin; they fly like autumn leaves before a strong wind. She crams her hand into her pocket and heads home.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  “Wish me luck!” Mary’s mother says as she puts on her jacket.

  “Good luck, Mom.”

  “Thank you, Sweetie. And what about you? Any big plans for today?”

  “No.”

  Yes

  “Just more unpacking, I guess.”

  “Well, make sure you go outside and get some fresh air. It looks like a really nice day out there. I’m looking forward to a nice walk through downtown.”

  “I will.”

  Her mother leans over to give her a kiss. “Love you.”

  Reluctantly, Mary replies, “Love you, too, Mom.” Her mother turns and heads out the door, flashing her daughter one last smile as it closes. Mary listens to her mother’s footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the front door opening and closing below. She goes to her window and peers down on her mother’s freshly styled hair. Mary watches her mother walk away, trotting down the long, slanting sidewalk before turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

  Mary continues her vigil, needing to be absolutely sure that her mother will not return home for some forgotten item. When it’s clear that her mother is well and truly gone, Mary drops to her hands and knees and looks under her bed. Reaching into the darkness, she pulls out a shallow cardboard box. Bringing it up to the bed, she lifts the lid—gently, reverently—and places it aside.

  At the top of the box is a short lifetime of cards and letters: Christmas, birthday, Valentine’s Day. Almost all came from her mother, a few from teachers and classmates. A small handful is from her father’s parents, whose absence from her life is another casualty of her mother’s incessant need to eliminate all traces of Mary’s father. A precious few still have her father’s name inside.

  You’ll never take these, Mom

  She picks up these mementos and sets them aside. As great a treasure as they are, they represent only a fraction of the greater cache below. Reaching in, she lifts out layer after layer of papers, eventually coming to a large manila envelope. It’s labeled “report cards” in her mother’s bold, clear hand. The envelope is so large, it fills the box, hiding what lies beneath. She removes it, revealing an unremarkable, somewhat tattered envelope that carries her most cherished items.

  This is her ritual. She opens the envelope, pulling out a thin pile of old photos. There is her father, right on top of the stack, sitting on a rock, his face in profile, reading a newspaper. In this picture, she feels that he is both solemn and sad.

  Like me

  She slides the first photo from the top of the pile, revealing the one below it. There is her father once again, bewildered, bespectacled, and standing before a Christmas tree. He is holding up his daughter,
a dark-haired toddler with a blank expression. It’s usually by this photo that she begins to cry. Today is no exception.

  Where are you?

  Tears fall on the third photo: it’s the back of his head, hair short and prematurely gray, as he walks toward a green forest. There is a pink blur in the bottom corner.

  Is that me?

  Hastily, she wipes the tears from the surface of the photo, fearful of destroying one of these irreplaceables.

  Did you have shadows like me?

  Did Mom scare you away?

  Did I?

  By late morning, she has recovered herself enough to move on, having completed the ritual of photographs and tears. Next, she unpacks a stash of her father’s old records, nineteen vinyl LPs. Handling them gently, she turns each one over, examining them as an archeologist would some rare find. They all bear her father’s name in pencil along the top right-hand corner of the cover. As she did with her father’s book, she runs her fingers along the letters.

  She had to work hard to convince her mother to keep their old record player. “Why do you need a record player when you have CDs?” her mother asked.

  I never wanted them

  “I was thinking of starting a record collection.”

  “Where are you going to get records around here?”

  “I think I saw a record store when we came here.”

  “They still have those?” her mother asked and let it go. The idea of her daughter’s having an interest in something, in anything, has been enough to convince her that the old turntable was worth keeping around. Mary had yet to collect any records of her own, but that didn’t stop her from setting up the gear in her room.

  Kneeling down, Mary flicks on the stereo and the record player. She selects an album, Tea for the Tillerman by Cat Stevens. With all the care she can muster, she removes the paper sleeve and record from the cardboard cover. With trembling fingers, she places it on the turntable, lifting the arm slowly and setting the needle in place. First comes the scratch of the needle on the vinyl, then the bittersweet opening notes of “Where Do the Children Play?” She rocks back onto her heels, clutching her knees and closing her eyes, taking in the sounds, imagining her father doing the same so many years ago. She remains motionless until the needle reaches the end of the first side. Leaning forward to flip it over, she looks through the pile of unplayed albums. Joni Mitchell’s Blue … Songs of Leonard Cohen … which would be her second choice?

  As the morning wears on, she perks up, feeling comforted by her father’s phantom presence and the possibilities of the new apartment. She continues to unpack, sometimes quietly, sometimes whisper-singing along with the music.

  Well in 1941 a happy father had a son

  By late afternoon, all the boxes are unpacked, her album choices have been played, and her tears have run out.

  S

  Mary is curling up in a chair, head resting to one side, skimming the pages of one of her father’s books, The Silver Chair, when she hears footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  Something’s wrong

  She quickly slides the copy of The Silver Chair under the cushions as she hears the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opens and her mother enters the apartment, her face tired and flushed red.

  “Hi,” Mary says.

  “Hi,” her mother replies, a note of frustration in her voice.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, it’s just those people downtown.” She throws her purse onto the couch and tosses her jacket over a chair. “No wonder they say the downtown is dying! It’s dirty, for one thing. There’s garbage and food everywhere and it smells to high heaven. And it’s just full of the sketchiest people you’ve ever seen in your life. Young thugs and pregnant teenage girls who smoke, doing who knows what to their babies. Thank God, you’re such a good girl.

  “And since when,” her mother continues with sudden, increased anger, “is it acceptable to spit in public? I must have seen ten people spit on the sidewalk as I walked past. And some of them were girls! It’s just disgusting. At least the shop was okay, although I didn’t make a commissioned sale. I don’t know … I guess I was hoping it would be a little more glamorous.” Her voice turns wistful, “Mostly I just have to listen to these cheap old biddies who only buy things off the sale rack.”

  With that, her mother sits down heavily on the couch. She reaches over to grab her jacket, pulls off her nametag, and places it in her purse. She pulls out a small plastic bag. “I almost forgot. I got this for you. I know it’s not what you’d normally wear, but I thought it would be cute for the first day of school.” She holds the bag out to Mary.

  Mary reaches over nervously, takes the bag, and peers inside. White fabric coils within it. She reaches in, withdrawing a small, thin t-shirt. On the front is the image of a bold, stylized cat.

  I hate it

  Don’t say that, it will make her upset

  But I don’t want to wear it

  Just say thanks and she’ll let it go

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, don’t look like that. I just hate to see you dressing in monochrome all the time. It just doesn’t suit you. Apparently, this was a very big seller over the summer.”

  “I don’t want to wear it.”

  “Sweetie, I’m trying so hard here. Would you please just help me out and wear it?” Mary can see exhaustion and emotion creeping over her mother’s face, can hear the faint change in voice that precedes another round of tears.

  Say yes or she’ll start to cry again

  “All right.”

  “Thanks, Posey.” Her mother reaches over to give her daughter a hug. Mary rests awkwardly in her mother’s arms.

  I’ll just wear my jacket over it

  S

  Mary lies in the dark of her room, almost wide awake.

  Sleep rarely comes easily. While some part of her welcomes sleep and its promise of forgetting—no worries, no sadness, no fear—she also dreads the dark hours when the shadows emerge and her secret is most exposed.

  The headlights from the cars climbing the hill outside her window flash across her walls. She watches them, bright and sweeping, while she argues with herself, going back and forth over what to do now, in this new place, in this new life.

  What do you even want?

  I want Daddy to come back

  It’s been ten years, he’s not coming back

  Maybe …

  Grow up

  I want mom to leave me alone

  She can’t

  She could try

  Forget it. What do you really want?

  I don’t know

  Yes, you do

  A life

  What kind of life?

  A life like anyone else’s

  That can’t happen

  I’d like friends

  You can’t trust them

  Maybe a boyfriend, some day

  That’s a joke

  I want the shadows to go away

  They won’t

  Then I wish I could tell them what to do

  How would you do that?

  I don’t know

  But if you could tell them what to do, then you could live a life?

  I think so. I think then I could live a life

  CHAPTER

  Five

  It’s one of those wonderful mornings when she wakes to find the shadows already gone. She lets herself sleep in, enjoying the comfort of her bed. It seems that she can never get enough sleep. Eventually, she rises and slips on a pair of loose pants. She walks to the center of the living room where she can take in the whole of their apartment in a single turn. Her mother is nowhere to be seen. She walks into the kitchen and flicks on the overhead light. Her mother has left a note on the table: “Hi Sweetie, had to go to work, decided to let you sleep, leftover turkey slices in fridge for lunch. Can you get supper ready? Nothing fancy. See you after work! XOXO Mom.”

  The rest of Sunday morning is spent looking at her father’s photograp
hs, listening to his records, reading his books, and occasionally staring out the window of the shaded living room. Eventually, she decides to leave the apartment. Despite the heat, she puts on her coat and heads out, making her way through the twisting streets that lead down the hill, away from her home and into the downtown A river separates her home from the heart of the city, a rusted bridge—one of many—crosses it. Once over it, she follows the road until she arrives downtown.

  It’s quiet. She chooses her path without a plan, feeling her way through this strange new city. She stares into store windows, down at pockmarked sidewalks, and up into the elegant, crumbling facades. Eventually, she spots the music store she saw earlier. Her warning voice whispers silently inside her

  This is not a place for you

  but buoyed by the absence of shadows that morning and the solitude of her stroll, she stops before it. Finding a portion of glass not covered by flyers and posters, she peeks inside, taking in the sight of the darkened interior.

  You can’t go in there

  Why not?

  You know why not

  But if I got some records, Mom wouldn’t bug me to get rid of the record player

  No

  I bet they have old folk music like Daddy had

  You know the story, “Don’t go into the woods little girl, Little Red Riding Hood beware…”

  Shut up shut up

  A male voice behind her asks, “Going in?” She flinches at the startling sound and turns to see a slim boy of her own age. Her first thought, one that she cannot suppress, is that he is beautiful. His hair is sandy blond and hangs down almost over his eyes. His unexpectedly low voice contrasts with his soft, almost feminine, features. Confidently, he places one hand on the door in front of her and the other lightly on her back. He pushes the door open and sweeps her inside before him.

  Once inside, she takes a sidelong glance in his direction, noting his slight frame. He wears a thin red hoodie, close-fitting jeans, and sneakers. A shoulder bag crosses over his chest.

  “Hi,” he says, brushing the hair out of his eyes.