Louise had two friends in the neighborhood, Lucy and Maggie, both of whom were fans of Louise’s poetry, which had been published in the Ann Arbor News, and of her art, black charcoal sketches she’d work on in the kitchen once everyone had gone to bed. Lucy had heavy-hooded eyes and a slow, almost-Southern way of speaking. She liked antique shopping with Louise, and she liked refinishing furniture as well. She had two small children and was married to the man who was the father of the older child. The newborn was the child of the man with whom she was having an affair. Portia, who was often so quiet and still the adults forgot she was in the room, overheard Lucy tell Louise that whenever her husband played with the baby or held him, Lucy would watch them closely to see if either one knew he wasn’t related to the other. And when the baby was asleep in his crib, she’d bend over and whisper in his ear, “That man is not your father. Your father is much kinder.” This, of course, led Portia to wonder about her own father—a fear that was assuaged only when a neighbor pointed out that she and Buzzy had amber-brown eyes that were so similar you could swap them and neither one would look different.
And then there was Maggie. She was redheaded and smart. Portia heard her complain about doing housework with her Ph.D. in English while her husband, who only had a master’s degree, taught at the local high school. Maggie wasn’t good with her hands the way Louise and Lucy were, but she was a good talker, so while Louise and Lucy tried to repair a foot pump melodeon organ that Louise had found at a flea market, Maggie sat by and talked and talked and talked . . . about what she was reading, about what she had read, about what she would write if she ever had time to write. Portia had always thought Maggie’s little speeches weren’t nearly as interesting as Lucy’s.
When Anna was seven and Portia was four and a half, just before Emery was born, the girls started spending time with the Cloud children who lived across the street. Aaron Cloud was Anna’s age, Gregor Cloud was Portia’s age, and Sissy Cloud was younger than Portia. Sissy was always seen dragging her grayed, spit-shined blanket behind her as she followed her brothers.
Portia recoiled from the chaos of the Cloud house, while her sister thrived in it. The carpet in the living room scared Portia—there were smashed putty discs of old gum, and peanut-butter-and-jelly smears that changed color depending on how long they’d been there. Even the sounds of the house seemed chaotic. When the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang soundtrack played on the turntable and Anna, Aaron, Sissy, and Gregor sang at full voice, they would create a swirling, spinning world of daring, noise, and motion. Mr. Cloud often slept right through this ruckus—a fat, crumpled heap of a man who appeared to be part of the couch cushions he slept on.
A favorite game of the Cloud kids and Anna was to take a running start from one end of the room and leap over the couch and Mr. Cloud without waking him up. Anna and Aaron could both achieve this feat from the backside of the couch. Gregor and Sissy Cloud would approach from the cushion side, stepping one foot on the edge of the cushion before propelling themselves up and over. Sissy often fell and tumbled onto the pillow of her father, but even that rarely woke him. If Portia were there (whisper-singing with her head dropped, as if that would make her invisible), Anna often grabbed her, placed Portia at the proper distance, then pushed from behind to get her going on the couch-jumping game. Portia always took off running, then veered off around the couch. She feared landing on Mr. Cloud and didn’t want to risk having to touch him: his chalky, elephant-skinned elbows, his gelatinous belly that pushed out above his pants, his wet-looking face that caved to the side like a fallen cake.
In fact, there were few things Portia was willing to try with her sister and the Clouds. She wouldn’t shimmy down the rope that hung from the attic window to the tree branch that stood about two stories high; she wouldn’t stand at the base of the tree and catch the Playboy magazines that were tossed down from the army trunk in the third floor where Anna and Aaron discovered them; she wouldn’t eat the wormhole-pocked crab apples from the neighbor’s tree; nor would she walk over to Steve Bologna’s house and put a piece of bologna in his mailbox. She wouldn’t light fires in the basement using bricks that were found in the backyard as a fire pit; she wouldn’t sit in the windowless basement with the lights off so that it was pitch-black and listen to Aaron and Anna tell ghost stories; and she wouldn’t run around the neighborhood after dark, climbing sharp-edged wire fences to cut through one backyard after another in search of phantoms and stray cats.
The winter Emery was born, Louise told her daughters she wanted them out of the house more, out of the way, so she could sleep when the baby slept. This was not a problem for Anna, who roamed the neighborhood in snow past her waist; in fact, if anything, it created a complication that made Anna’s outdoor adventures more exciting. Portia didn’t want to go out in the snow, so she hid in her room, silently reading or playing with dolls. She knew if she didn’t ask her mother for anything, not even a glass of water, she could stay inside forever.
When spring came, Portia did, however, leave the house. She went on a picnic with the Cloud family. Louise had insisted.
“They were nice enough to invite you,” Louise said, “so you should be nice enough to go.” She was spread across an armchair like an elegant bird, holding a suckling Emery at her breast.
Portia went upstairs and changed into a red-checked puff-sleeved dress her mother had sewn for her. It reminded her of pictures of picnics, and girls in magazine ads for pies and pastries. It was what she imagined to be the perfect dress for a Sunday in the park.
As she had never been on an actual picnic, Portia’s understanding of one was that it included a wicker basket to hold the food and a red plaid blanket to sit on. When the Cloud family loaded a giant green Hefty trash bag into the way-back of their station wagon, she realized that packaging was not what made an event.
Anna and Aaron shared the front seat with Mr. Cloud who drove, one hand on the wheel and one dangling out the window as if it were a prosthetic arm that had to remain straight. Mrs. Cloud, with her hair in a whorled hive on her head, sat in the back seat between Portia and Sissy. Gregor sat in the way-back with the Hefty bag.
“I’m hungry,” Gregor said, and he tried to untie the garbage bag so he could start eating right then.
Mrs. Cloud, who had the reaction time of teenaged boy playing pinball, whipped around in her seat and slapped his arm. “You’ll eat when we get there!” she said, and she stayed turned in her seat to make sure Gregor stayed put.
“I want fried chicken!” Gregor said, and Anna and Aaron, upon hearing his plea, began to clap their hands on beat and repeat over and over again, “I WANT FRIED CHICKEN, I WANT FRIED CHICKEN, I WANT FRIED CHICKEN . . .” When Sissy joined in, the noise was so loud and screechy that Portia began to feel a little nauseous. Then Anna upped the sound again, by lifting her knobby knees and stomping her feet on the dash with the beat. Aaron’s legs were too long for him to stomp on the dash, so he pounded his feet on the floor, making the car vibrate so strongly it felt like the brake was being tapped. Mr. Cloud didn’t seem to notice the uproar and Mrs. Cloud, who kept her eyes trained on her son, didn’t seem to care.
Portia slumped against the door and let her mind go somewhere else as she waited for it all to pass: the fracas, the sense of danger that being with the Clouds always presented, the slapping machine of Mrs. Cloud.
When they reached the park, Aaron and Sissy burst out of the car, screaming, “FRIED CHICKEN, FRIED CHICKEN, FRIED CHICKEN.” Gregor flipped over the seat from the way-back to the back, his foot grazing Portia’s cheek and tangling momentarily in his mother’s hair. “Get!” Mrs. Cloud screamed, slapping his legs as he slid across the seat and out the door. “GET OUT!”
Portia stepped out of the car and hovered nearby as Mr. Cloud unloaded the plastic sack from the way-back. She didn’t know where her sister and the Cloud kids had run off to—it was a big park, with massive branchy trees obscuring the hilly vista—and she didn’t want to get lost. The best course o
f action, Portia thought, would be to stick close to the people with the car keys.
They walked to a patch of thistly grass where Mrs. Cloud spread out a white chenille bedspread under a tree. Mrs. Cloud grunted when she kneeled down on the bedspread, as if it took effort to simply lower herself. Mr. Cloud sat beside her, then lay on his back, his stomach rising up like the landscape.
“Beer,” Mr. Cloud said and he waved his hand around as if one would magically appear.
“Damn, I left them in the car.” Mrs. Cloud stood and started to walk back to the car. Portia followed her a few steps behind. She had never spoken to Mr. Cloud before and didn’t want to wait on the bedspread alone with him. Before she reached the parking lot, Mrs. Cloud turned and looked back at Portia. “Why don’t you go play with the kids?”
“I don’t know where they are,” Portia said. She pulled on the hem of her checked dress, to straighten it over her white fleshy thighs.
“So find them.” Mrs. Cloud clapped her hands like she was shooing a squirrel. Portia scurried back to the bedspread, then beyond it to the nearest large tree. She hid behind the trunk, peeking out on Mr. Cloud so she could be sure he wouldn’t drive away without her.
Mrs. Cloud returned with a six-pack of Schlitz. She sat on the bedspread and ripped two beers off the cardboard cuff. She popped the metal tab off one and flicked it onto the grass. Mr. Cloud lifted his hand and kept it there until Mrs. Cloud put the opened beer in it. Portia was amazed that he didn’t need to sit up to drink. Mr. Cloud simply tilted his weighty head forward and lifted the can to his lips, lapping at the beer without pause. When he was done, he dropped his head back and released the empty can on the bedspread beside himself.
Portia felt lonely and scared. She worried that she’d blink and her ride home would be gone. She wanted to sit down, but thought she’d need to take a running start to make it to the car should the Clouds suddenly decide to leave. More than anything, she wanted to be home with Louise, sitting beside her, reading a book or just nestling into the soft spot between her arm and breast.
Portia’s heart fluttered with relief when she heard the cacophony of Anna, Aaron, Gregor, and Sissy, still chanting “FRIED CHICKEN” as they speed-skipped through the park, dodging trees, other picnickers, and small children. They skidded to a stop at the bedspread and surrounded the Hefty bag, whose neck was held tight in Mrs. Cloud’s fist.
Portia ran out from the tree and stood beside her sister.
“FRIED CHICKEN, FRIED CHICKEN, FRIED CHICKEN,” Anna screamed, stomping her scrawny, dark legs.
“As soon as you all settle down, I’ll give you some fried chicken!” Mrs. Cloud said.
“Order in the court!” Aaron started, and all the kids, except Portia, who recited the words in her head, joined in. “Order in the court! The monkey wants to speak! The monkey wants to speak! Let the monkey speak! Let the monkey speak!” Portia had never tried to discern the meaning of this chant. It was just something the Cloud kids said regularly. Anna loved it and would often demand that Portia stomp her feet and say it with her when Anna and Portia were marching off to bed.
“Okay, okay, enough already!” Mrs. Cloud had a little smirk on her face. An idea shifted into Portia’s mind just then, a discovery: wacko, smelly, loud children aren’t nearly as wacko, smelly, and loud to their mothers.
“Dippity-do!” Sissy shouted.
“DIPPITY-DO, DIPPITY-DO,” the kids easily slid into a new chant. Mrs. Cloud put Dippity-do in Sissy’s hair after every washing. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her as the Dippity-do Girl.
“All right, now! I’ve really had enough!” Mrs. Cloud moved onto her knees as the kids settled in a circle around her. Portia squeezed in beside Anna, who elbowed her away.
Mrs. Cloud unwound the metal twisty that held the bag shut, opened the bag, and peered inside. “Goddamnit!” she yelled, and she turned and slapped her sleeping husband on his beefy calf. “You took the goddamned trash! I told you the food was in the trash bag on the counter! On the counter! But you took the godammned trash instead!”
Aaron, Gregor, and Anna scrambled onto their knees to look into the trash bag. Mr. Cloud sat up and rubbed his eyes the way little kids do when they awaken from naps. Eric pulled out a bloody piece of brown paper that had probably wrapped the chicken before it was cooked. He flung the paper in the air and it landed across Sissy’s face, sticking there like an octopus. Sissy screamed and started crying; her mother pulled off the paper, then tossed it onto the grass. A stink was emanating from the bag—sour and foggy and unlike anything in Anna and Portia’s tidy house, where Buzzy took the trash out to the alleyway can every evening after supper.
Sissy’s crying was increasing in volume. Mr. Cloud raised his head. “Well, if there isn’t any goddamned fried chicken, then let’s go home.”
Mrs. Cloud got up and shooed everyone off the bedspread with her foot. Mr. Cloud went through a series of grunting, stilted movements, and eventually he was standing. Once Mr. Cloud had stepped aside, Mrs. Cloud yanked the bedspread up from beneath the trash, causing the bag to tilt on its side and belch out a small pile of detritus. She picked up the remaining four beers and marched toward the car. Portia grabbed her sister’s hand so she wouldn’t be left behind, but Anna shook it off and quickly ran ahead to catch up with Aaron. Anna always made it clear that having Portia along was like trying to ride a bike with your foot pressed back on the brake pedal.
When they got home, Anna went into the Cloud house with Aaron, Gregor, and Sissy, while Portia went next door to Mrs. White’s house. Mrs. White was a seventy-eight-year-old widow who looked like the old ladies in storybooks: gray hair in a bun, buttoned-up dress, crinkle-eyed smile. She was the only person on the block, other than Buzzy and Louise, who, Portia thought, was of reasonably sound mind. Mrs. White appeared to like her visits, as she’d make Portia tea with lots of sugar and milk and she’d get out her stuffed, knit monkey for Portia to play with. They usually sat on the screened front porch and watched Anna and the Cloud kids scramble by like a pack of wild dogs. But sometimes, Mrs. White would let Portia go into her extra bedroom upstairs, where there was a black antique dresser whose drawers she was allowed to explore. In one drawer were paper-wrapped soaps with different labels and smells. In another drawer were hand-crocheted doilies, and the blue cotton nursing cap Mrs. White had worn during the Second World War. In another drawer were clothes for the stuffed monkey—long and narrow like him, and even an array of hats that would fit over his round, knitted ears.
On the hottest week in August three events occurred in the neighborhood, each so startling it seemed impossible that they would overlap without somehow being a reflex of the same trigger: the oppressive humidity or the moon looking fuller than it had ever been.
The first event was that Maggie, Louise’s friend, had a baby and decided it was the Messiah. When her husband took the baby away from her one night (he thought the presence of the child was causing her hysteria), she walked into the bathroom, picked up the bottle of Drano, and drank it.
The second event was that Gregor Cloud lit Sissy Cloud on fire when he was striking a match (for fun) after her hair had been slathered with Dippity-do.
And the third event was that Mrs. White died in her sleep (with a smile on her face, Louise told her daughters).
Everyone but Mrs. White miraculously survived.
Anna seemed unfazed when Louise told the girls about Maggie. This didn’t surprise Portia, as her sister had always said that Maggie was a crazy lady whom their mother should never let in the house. But the Sissy Cloud tragedy had enraptured Anna, who liked to tell the story over and over again, each time embellishing the details (Sissy’s whole head was a giant fireball and the flames were leaping around her, lighting the trees on fire and burning off all her clothes so that she was standing there buck-naked when the firemen finally came!) until Portia would start crying with fear. When it came to Mrs. White’s death, Anna was sweet and gentle with her sister.
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��It is weird that your best friend was an old lady,” Anna whispered into Portia’s ear as she lay in bed the night of the death. “But it’s still sad.” Portia nodded her head. She had stopped talking since she heard the news. It wasn’t a deliberate, willful mutism; it was simpler than that. She felt hollow and quiet and no longer had an interest in talking.
“If you want to sleep with me tonight, you can,” Anna said, and she pulled down the covers and helped her sister pad out of bed and across the hall to her own room where she directed Portia into the puddle of blankets at the foot of her bed.
Buzzy and Louise didn’t worry much about Portia’s silence, but Louise was kind enough to discontinue the forced play time at the Cloud house. And she allowed Portia to stay with her continuously, even bringing her along on the day she visited Maggie in the hospital (Portia had wanted to visit Sissy Cloud—now bald as a bare butt, according to her brothers—but she had been transferred to a hospital in Detroit). Louise brought Maggie a Life magazine and a box-wrapped red lipstick in a gold-ridged case.
Maggie was sleeping when they got to her room. She looked like a human appliance. Ropes and wires extended from all parts of her body and were plugged into machines that were plugged into the wall. Louise sat on the chair beside her bed, pulled a cigarette out of her snap-shut pocketbook, and lit it up. Portia sat on her mother’s lap and stared down at Maggie’s face and neck. Her flesh appeared surprisingly normal. And then she woke up, her eyes flashing at Louise, and she parted her lips and tried to smile. Her mouth, or what had been a mouth, was black and jagged, like a charcoaled cave. And she couldn’t speak, she indicated, as she halfway lifted a wired-up hand and pointed to her throat. Portia wanted to point to her throat, too, to tell her that she, too, had stopped talking, but she didn’t.
Drinking Closer to Home Page 2