Mom says, “We’ll be right back, Jeffrey. I need to talk to Veronica for a bit. Keep pumping, kid.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me to the house. After a few paces, she says, “What?” like I’ve been staring at her expectantly, but I haven’t. Then she says, “I need someone on that swing today. I need the juice to vacuum the floors later.”
7
We’re in the kitchen. I sit down. Mom stands and paces. She doesn’t wait for me to say anything and starts right in with a simple declarative.
“You and I came home early one afternoon and I found more than the expected amount of heads in my bedroom.”
I say, “How old was I?”
“One.”
My other head is Mom. Mom when she was my age. Despite her pigtails, she manages older-Mom’s fierce, intimidating look. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I’m tired of trying to figure out who’s thinking what.
I ask, “Who was he with?”
“Does it matter?” Mom doesn’t waver, doesn’t get all choked up or anything like that, not that I expected her to.
“I don’t know if it matters, Mom. That’s why I’m asking.”
“The woman was the middle school science teacher that Mr. Bob replaced. She doesn’t live in town anymore.”
I imagine a woman who looks like Mr. Bob. She wears baggy clothes that have chemical stains and Bunsen burner singe marks. She has short, straight hair, mousey brown, wears thick glasses, and no makeup. Pretty in a smart way, maybe. I imagine Mom finding her in the bedroom with my father, who I can’t describe in such physical detail, no matter how hard I try to conjure him.
Young-Mom doesn’t say anything but just stares at her older self. Is this look of hers studied observation or soul-deep sadness?
“Did he leave after you caught him?”
“The very next morning.”
“Did you tell him he had to leave?”
“No.”
Young-Mom says, “Do you really need to know any more of this?” which I don’t think is a very fair question. It’s not fair to be double-teamed by Mom like this, even though I know that I can’t always blame everything on Mom. I fight the urge to tell the Young-Mom to shut up.
I say, “That’s terrible. I’m sorry that happened, Mom. I really am.”
“Thank you.” Mom says it like she’s accepting a throwaway compliment about her shoes. Young-Mom pouts. They are both so intimidating but I stand up and stutter-walk to Mom and give her a hug. She doesn’t uncross her arms off her chest so the hug isn’t soft and comfortable. I make contact mostly with the angles of her bones and the points of her elbows and the sweater wool scratches my face, but Mom does kiss the top of my head, twice. That’s something, maybe even enough.
“Thanks again, sweetie.”
I break the one-sided hug and say, “What did he look like?”
“You.”
“Can I ask where he lives?”
Young-Mom sighs and shakes her head. Her pigtails tickle my neck, feeling eerily similar to Medusa’s snakes, but I don’t mind them as much.
“I thought I was ready to tell you, Veronica, but I’m not.”
I want to ask if she knows who my other head is. I want to ask if she knows what it means. I want to ask if she knows that most days I dream about becoming her.
She continues, “It’s not you anymore. I know you can handle it now, but you’ll just have to give me more time.” Mom uncrosses her arms and looks around the kitchen, at the cluttered counter and the sewing machine, looking for something to do.
Young-Mom turns, whispers directly into my ear, “Are you happy, now?”
I unroll the neck of the sweater and pull it up over her mouth and nose. She doesn’t stop me or say anything else.
I say, “Okay, Mom,” but I don’t know if it is okay and I don’t know if I feel guilty or satisfied or sad or angry or scared. What I’m feeling no one has bothered to name or classify or dissect, or maybe this feeling has already been outed by somebody else and I just haven’t stumbled across it, and that seems likely but at the same time it doesn’t, and then I think about all the books in my bedroom and the giant stacks of books in my Little Red Bookstore and I wonder if it is there or here or anywhere else other than inside me.
Mom says, “All right, back to work, then.” She claps her hands and I feel my other head change but I won’t look to see who it is yet. “Could you go and take over for Jeffrey on the swing? He’s making me nervous. I appreciate it, honey. And don’t forget about your big tests later.”
8
It’s windy and cold, the temperature dropping by the minute. Jeffrey stops swinging but stays on the seat. “Do I have to stop now?”
“Yes, my mother wants me to take over.”
He doesn’t argue, but he hasn’t moved off the seat either. He releases the swing chain that was tucked under his armpit. “You and your Mom had a talk?”
“Yes, Jeffrey.” I notice I’m standing in my Mom’s pose, but I don’t change it.
“Did you ask her about your Dad?”
“I did.”
“Did she tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Tell you where he is.”
“No, not yet.”
Jeffrey nods like he understands. Maybe he does. He says, “Maybe you should ask someone else.”
“Like who?”
“Me?” He says it like a question, almost like he doesn’t know who me is.
I play along. Anything to keep me off the swing for another few minutes. “Okay, Jeffrey. Do you know where my father is?”
He nearly shouts, “Yes.”
My arms wrap tighter around my chest. This isn’t fun anymore. “Then where is he?”
Jeffrey scoots off the swing and points behind him. He points at the neighbor’s big wooden fence. “He lives there. Right next door.”
That’s impossible. Isn’t it? Wouldn’t I have seen him by now? I think about who lives there and I can’t come up with anyone. Is that right? Has he been this close all along and I just haven’t noticed, or haven’t wanted to notice?
Jeffrey says, “I’m not lying, Veronica. I’ve seen him.”
“I didn’t say you were lying.”
He says, “I think he’s even out in the yard right now. Go and see.”
I look at the fence, seven feet high, completely wrapping around the property. “How?”
“There’s a knothole in the fence behind your bushes. You know, I usually hide in your bushes.”
I snort, ready to charge. “Okay. Jeffrey, go home please.”
He reacts like I hit him, and tears well up.
I soften. “You can come back over later, but I need to do this by myself.”
Jeffrey nods, still fighting those tears, then sprints home, this time gripping the empty arm of his sweater. I walk to the bushes, to where Jeffrey hides, the same bushes I hid in earlier. There is a knothole in the fence, the size of a quarter, plenty big to see through. I should’ve seen this earlier, but I guess I wasn’t looking for it.
I remember my second head. The turtleneck is still rolled over her nose and mouth. I roll it down and find Anne, again. Only this Anne is older, older than me, even older than the one in her diary. Her skin has sores and is sallow and tight on her face, deepening and widening her already big eyes. Her hair has thinned and I see white scalp in too many places. This Anne doesn’t ask any questions. This Anne isn’t chatty. This is the Anne that no one dares imagine after reading her diary. I want to help her, take care of her somehow, and I think she senses this, because she points at the knothole with my left hand and nods. Before I look into the hole, I think, selfishly, that this might be the right Anne for the question I’ve always wanted to ask.
There’s a man in the backy
ard. He’s wearing jeans and a moth-worn, olive-green sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He’s raking leaves with his back turned to me. When he stops raking, he walks over to a tire-swing tied to a thick branch of an oak tree. The branch has an axle and generator set-up similar to my swing set, but no one is riding the tire-swing. There are rocks duct-taped to the bottom of the tire. He pushes the tire-swing a few times, to get the pendulum moving, then goes back to raking leaves. This man has two heads.
I wait and watch. He rakes and pushes, but he doesn’t turn around so I can see either of his faces. His hair is brown and short on each head, and now I wish I never looked through the hole.
Anne says, “Why has he never contacted you? Why does he hide so close to home? Does he do this so he can see you when he wants? Or is he just being cruel, mocking you, mocking your mother?”
I want to stay crouched in this spot and let leaves and snow gather on me and never stop watching, but I do pull my eye away from the knothole. Anne and I scan the length and height of the fence. I don’t know the answer to Anne’s questions and I know the likelihood is that I may never know.
I decide to ask Anne the question. I hope it doesn’t seem callous or even cruel to her. I understand how it could be interpreted that way, but I hope she understands me and why I do what I do. I still hope.
I say, “Anne, in your last diary entry, you wrote something that . . . that I need to ask you about. This you in particular. Do you know what I mean by this you?”
“Yes.”
I say it. “Do you still believe that people are really good at heart?”
Anne sighs and closes her eyes and it’s terrible because it makes her look dead. She holds my left hand, the fingers suddenly and dangerously skinny, over her mouth and chin. She’s thinking and I know she will give me an answer. But now that I’ve asked, the answer isn’t as important to me as it was a few days ago, or even a few seconds ago. Because no matter what she says, I’ll go back to my swing set and to feeding my house what it needs and I won’t tell Mom that I know where he is and I’ll take my tests tonight and try my best and help her with the dishes and then talk to her about Mrs. Dalloway and the women in my book club and maybe even convince Mom to become an official member. Because, maybe foolishly, I still hope.
But I’ll sit in the bushes and wait as long as is necessary to hear what Anne has to say. I owe us that much.
The Strange Case of Nicholas Thomas: An Excerpt from A History of the Longesian Library
Edited by Paul G. Tremblay
***Editor’s Note:
Transcribed below are the notes left behind by our most infamous and mysterious librarian, Nicholas Thomas. Be advised the original notes were handwritten; I’ve made no changes to spelling or grammar; I’ve used ellipses where Mr. Thomas trailed off and underscores where he wrote illegibly. You will be spared further editorial commentary until after you’ve read the notes in their entirety. However, I can’t resist beginning with a juicy quote. P.G.T.***
“The Balloons of Annotte in all their implausibility, absurdity, allure, inevitability, mystery, promise (to some), and menace serve only as symbols, and as constant reminders, of the irrational and capricious nature of our City-lives, of our very existence.”
—Gwyneth Ann Thomas
FROM NOTES FOR “THE BALLOONS OF ANNOTTE: A MODERN VIEW”
AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POINTS OF INTEREST:
—Nicholas Thomas, age thirty one, head librarian of the Longesian Library, the largest of City’s three public libraries (maybe include a brief or anecdotal history of the Longesian—the only library with an academic display devoted to the Balloons—possibly as a way to introduce or preface the book?), earned a Masters of Library and Information Science from City University and lower degrees in antiquity verification/cataloguing and a degree in City-folklore literature, founder and moderator of the highly successful City Arts discussion group (meeting weekly in the Longesian’s Green Room). This is to be the author’s first published work of non-fiction.
OBSERVATIONS:
12/17, 12:34 PM
—During these weeks before December 19th, City newspapers devoted pages of ink and text (thirty-three articles to my count . . . I need to remember to scan them into the office computer) to the Balloons of Annotte: fourteen articles detailing what had happened during the most recent occurrence and speculation on what may happen on the 19th, ten articles declaring the Balloons a hoax and outlining how—and by whom—such a hoax might be pulled off, two articles (these appearing in the underground religious publication, The Temple) more than intimating the Balloons were proof of God or other supernatural entities pertaining to God, three articles satirizing the event (two with a political bent, and another hilariously imagining the Balloons landing in other parts of the City, including the Pier and in the sex-and-drug-crazed Zone), and five articles written with bureaucratically mind-numbing detail about City’s planned and rather draconian response to a Balloon occurrence and the riots that have historically ensued.
—To emphasize a modern view I probably should mention there is countless more text and video devoted to the Balloons on City Television and on the Internet (though nothing from those mediums is worth documenting in the opinion of this author). One sophomoric website claims to have the only existing photograph of a Balloon; however, after a brief viewing, it screams hoax, and a poor one at that. Someone photographed a ludicrous pink balloon, its Happy Birthday message still visible, hovering over a building, a building clearly not from Annotte.
12/18, 5:59 PM
—While working to set up a mini-observatory on my beloved library’s roof, someone deposited a truly strange publication into the library’s return-slot. A publication that I’m convinced is not authentic, or at the very least, flawed, if not purposefully so. An Essay on the Strange Case of the Balloons of Annotte is thin, pamphlet-sized, nineteen-pages long, soft-bound with crude cover art depicting a Balloon hanging over the towers and spires of Annotte, and written by none other than Gwyneth Ann Thomas, my dear mother who passed away eighteen years ago this very week. I was hoping to keep any personal history from seeping into my scholarly endeavor, however, as December 19th approaches, it seems I may have little choice. There is no doubt the woman in the grainy, black-and-white photo on the back cover is my mother. There’s no mistaking those owl-eyes, her sloped nose, and ghostly pallor (she was often besieged by a chorus of “You look so pale. Are you feeling all right?” at any gathering of friends or family), all of which I inherited and earned through a mostly secluded and indoor life at my library.
—The essay’s publication date must be an error. According to an age-weathered copyright page the publication is only a year old, which isn’t possible as both of my parents have been in their graves for almost two decades. I wonder if a former co-worker of hers, possibly someone who was her research assistant once-upon-a-time, is publishing this posthumously. I wonder if someone is trying to make me the butt of a nasty joke. Most likely the Catholic priest from next door, he tends to be surly and mischievous, more so than usual so close to his Messiah’s birthday. This is an unexpected and unwelcome intrusion upon my research, and only two days before the event. I vow not to read the essay until after the 19th. I need to remain on task.
—I had planned on dedicating my book to my mother, and now there’s this essay. City University Press is the publisher. Must make a note to call them tomorrow and ask about this copyright date.
12/18, 6:49 PM
—I broke down and read half of my mother’s essay. I’ll include some marked passages (with commentary) below. Perhaps her essay will be more help than hindrance to my academic cause. If nothing else, I will ensure I do not duplicate my mother’s work and conclusions.
—From page one, second paragraph:
Only in City does the implausible become expected, miracle become the mundane. While I will not turn this
essay into yet another discourse on the nature, the who, the why, or the how of the great wooden Pier beneath City (many a scholar, most more talented than I, have dedicated millions of words to the Pier question without any verifiable answer), I find it important that we so readily accept and take for granted the two-hundred-foot tall wooden posts, and the practically infinite in their number wooden struts and beams that lift City above the coastline. Such City-wide social attitudes are important because we—especially the people living in Annotte—have the same attitude toward the enigmatic Balloons, despite the consequences often attributed to their appearance.
While my mother was certainly a gifted writer, with obvious abilities to sway the reader, I’m surprised by the level (or lack) of academic rigor. I suppose I have to remind myself this is an essay, not a detailed thesis. As seen in this paragraph, she offers no documentation or research to back her claims of City’s societal beliefs. After a quick flip through the publication, I found no footnotes or other sources cited. I wonder if this was published unfinished and without my mother’s permission. Perhaps I should contact the family lawyer to enquire about the legality of such a publication.
—From page three, ninth paragraph:
Annotte is generally regarded as the birthplace of City. A common debate, even heard among the populace walking City’s streets, is whether the Pier was built before Annotte or somehow built underneath the existing City-section. Compelling anecdotal evidence of Annotte being populated with pillars and spires and other rotund architectures—many of the buildings seemingly Pier-like—is used to argue both sides. While Annottites wear their ancient and mysterious City Pier heritage as a badge, it is the Balloons that infect their everyday lives, despite the nineteen-year period between occurrences.
In the Mean Time Page 4