Pew

by Catherine Lacey

  Kitty kept speaking as we walked down the hall, but I didn’t understand what she said. I felt the ceiling was too high above us, so high it might not have been there if I tilted my head up to look, so I did not look. We all walked deeper into the house.

  At the end of the hall was a room full of leather sofas and chairs, all of them pointed at a massive television on one wall, an altar. Several people were in the chairs and sofas, all of whom looked like variations of Kitty—pale hair, skin gleaming as if damp, clothing spotless and pressed—all in blues and greens and whites, coordinated like an army. They stared through the television. A person in a sparkling dress was singing into a microphone in one hand. Something cloying and pungent hung in the air—not flowers, something else, something closer to the smell of a baby’s head.

  OK, company’s here, y’all turn that thing off, will you? There’s some lemonade here and Cokes if you want them. I can’t handle the caffeine this late, myself, but it’s there if you want it. And fix yourself a little plate here, too, but don’t spoil your supper because like I said our girl has been cooking near all the ever-living day, excuse my language.

  No one moved. None of us and none of them.

  OK, y’all, really, turn that thing off now, Kitty shouted while smiling at the people who looked like her. A large man reclining in a chair watching the television, chewing a cigar butt, aimed a remote at the screen, making the singer vanish into gray.

  Does everybody remember everybody? Well, y’all know Butch, of course. The man with the cigar put up a hand almost like a salute, a gesture that Steven returned. And these are my daughters, Annie, Rachel, and Jill, and my sons, Ronnie and Butch junior, the woman said, speeding through the names as if it was something between a prayer and a chore. The daughters and sons were all dazed, distant. And where is Nelson?

  He’s still upstairs, one of the daughters said without looking up from the screen in her hands. She was the smallest in the room but she looked the most identical to the woman. She and Kitty were wearing the same dress and sweater and necklace. Both of them had hay-colored hair sculpted into stillness.

  Nelson! the woman shouted up a stairwell. Company’s here, Nelson, come on down!

  And, little darlin’, the woman said, remind me of your name again, will you?

  Pew, Hilda said. It’s just a nickname. For now.

  Pew! You mean pew like a church pew?

  Yes, Hilda said. It’s temporary. It’s just—

  Isn’t that something! Hilda, can I get you a glass of white wine? I’ve got a pinot grigio open and Butch can fix Steven up with a glass of Scotch, how about that? But don’t you go telling Joe or Mary-Lee that you had any fun over here because we always hide the liquor when they come over—ha ha!

  Just what the hell is wrong with those people? Butch said to Steven.

  Butch! Kitty turned to him with a face suddenly still and hard. What did I tell you? And just as quickly her face softened and loosened and laughed. Well! Well, let me see about that pinot!

  I went back down the hall to where the bathroom was, passing a room full of trophies in glass cases, a room lined with wine bottles, a bedroom that looked as if no one had ever slept in it, and a room that was just empty, just a big empty room. Eventually I found the bathroom, larger than a large car, all marble and chrome, everything perfectly clean. I washed my hands for a long time, and when I came back out to the hallway, a short woman in a white uniform was there, waiting. She took my arm and whispered, Habla español?

  I just looked at her and did nothing and she nodded as if something obvious had flown between us and we both knew exactly what it meant.

  Sea lo que sea, pase lo que pase, puedes contarme. Recuerda eso.

  She started back down the hall, stopping a few steps away to turn to me again—Recuerda eso. I looked at her. She looked at me. She vanished around a corner.

  When I returned to the main room, Kitty shouted, Now there we are!—and took me by the elbow toward someone who didn’t look like the rest of them. He was wearing a baseball cap and blue jeans and a loose white shirt. In the shadow of his cap, I could see a thick scar that ran from his temple to his neck.

  The woman spoke quickly, gesturing to the person in the baseball cap, to me, and back again. She did not seem to notice or care that neither of us was listening to her. She said the word Nelson as if it were something she had long wanted and worked hard to own.

  Hello. My name is Nelson. Each word was an exertion, each word very clear.

  And this is Pew, honey, like a church pew, isn’t that special? Pew’s not much of a talker but I’m sure you two will get along just perfectly. Now, honey, I think maybe you’ve forgotten to take your cap off, honey, you know we’ve talked about that before, haven’t we? About what to do when we’ve got company?

  Let that boy alone, he’s got his reasons, Butch called from the other side of the room where he shook a glass full of wet ice. The woman in white who had spoken to me outside the bathroom appeared beside him, refilled Butch’s glass from a small bottle, and vanished down a hallway.

  Without removing his cap or letting on that he’d heard anything, Nelson went to the refrigerator and took out a red soda can, opened it, and left the room. Kitty said something quietly for the first time since we arrived, something to Hilda and Steven, who each nodded with impressed horror. The woman in the white uniform appeared beside Kitty and said, Dinner ready, in a tiny voice, and everyone moved down another hallway, past various rooms and closed doors, flower arrangements, and hundreds of framed photographs of Kitty and Butch and these other people. Then we reached a room with a long table, huge bowls and platters of food, even more various and plentiful than the night before. Nelson was sitting at one corner of the table and I was ushered over to sit beside him. Once everyone had sat down, they all joined hands, but the chair to my left was empty and Nelson didn’t take my hand, just squinted at me with something like a smile. Everyone shut their eyes while Butch said a list of memorized words, and when he’d reached the list’s end, he added, And God bless Nelson and God bless Pew, amen, his concentration clumsy and honest, like a child gluing two pieces of paper together.

  The plate before me was filled with food, soft heaps leaking oil. I had known hunger so well and for so long that fullness had been difficult to recognize, but now, faced with all this, I could hardly eat. Since I had woken up on that pew, the meals had been endless and I wished I could have reached back and given one of them to those days of hunger in the past, or that I could have moved this plate to a place—there must have been such a place—where someone else was hungry. Nelson ate as if in a contest with someone, his throat a constant swallow. How was it I could have forgotten hunger, that feeling I knew so well? Nelson stabbed the whole chunk of black meat from my plate and ate it, not looking at me.

  The rest of the table spoke in overlapping voices, passing bowls and platters around. The woman in the white uniform went around refilling glasses with water or ice tea or wine.

  Nelson, having cleared his plate and mine, pushed his chair from the table, stood up, and I followed him by instinct.

  Don’t y’all want some dessert? the woman at the head of the table called out to us.

  No, ma’am, Nelson said. No thank you.

  It’s pecan pie. I didn’t think I’d ever live to see the day—

  No, ma’am, Nelson said again. No thank you.

  He’s taken to playing checkers on the back porch after supper, she explained to Hilda and Steven. Ronnie used to play with him, but he got tired of it I guess, so wouldn’t you know it, now poor Nelson just plays himself, just sits out there and plays checkers against himself, so I guess it’s good he has company today. I just really don’t know how he does it, with that heat, must be something about where he’s from, you know, must remind him of where he came from—and Nelson shut the back door to mute her.

  At the far corner of the screened porch was a low table with a checkerboard on it. Beside it were a few cushions he’d t
aken from the chairs and we sat on them, on the floor. From under the table, Nelson pulled out a large plastic cup with a straw in it and took a long gulp, wincing, then passed it to me.

  Whiskey, he said, and a little Coke.

  I took a long sip, thought of the woman at the gas station from some time ago. Even the haziness was hazy. I took another sip and felt my shoulders fall, felt my body settle lower into the floor. I smiled at Nelson. He smiled back, took the cup, and drank from it again.

  I don’t really play checkers, he said quietly, barely moving his mouth, glancing back toward the door. I have my cup back here. They leave me alone and I have my cup. Two more years, then I’m gone. I’ll go somewhere, and I’ll never come back. He took another sip, then spread the black and the red pieces around on the board, the numb action of something he’d done hundreds of times. Never, he said. He turned one of the black pieces on its side and pushed it forward and backward like a wheel that couldn’t go anywhere.

  How old are you? He waited a long while for me to reply. I shook my head. I won’t tell them you said anything.

  I looked out at the yard; brick pathways lit by tiny lamps wound between fountains and planes of grass and flower beds resting for the night. In the far corner of the yard a massive tree was spotlit from below, casting agonized shadows.

  I don’t know.

  He nodded. Where did you come from?

  I shrugged.

  They really found you in a church?

  I was sleeping, I said.

  Yeah, not much else you can do there but sleep. They take me every week. My whole family was killed in the name of God and now these people want me to sing a hymn like it was all some kind of misunderstanding. Must have been some other guy.

  He used a red piece to jump diagonally over a black piece, then used that black piece to jump diagonally over the red, a game against himself.

  I’m not as stupid as they think. I’ve read the history books, their Bible. It’s all in there. He stopped the game abruptly, leaned back, his head seeming loose on his neck. You’re right not to say anything. They hear what they want. The more you say, the more they’ll use it against you. Maybe they’d leave me alone more if they thought I was a mute.

  He took another sip, offered me another, and I took it. He put the cup back beneath the table just as we heard the door open and Butch calling out at us.

  How y’all doing out there? A cigar mumbled his voice.

  Good, Nelson said.

  Who’s winning?

  Pew, Nelson said.

  Very good. Butch shut the door.

  Nelson leaned over his knees, an elbow on each, and looked at the floor awhile.

  You’re all right—I haven’t met many people that were all right, not here, but … you’re OK.

  He kept looking at the floor, and when he spoke again, his voice went lower and looser, as if it were falling apart in water.

  I’m just sorry you came here or got left here or whatever. And maybe when I’m eighteen, I can help you leave, too, but right now I have to go. I have to go do something, all right? And you should just stay here. Butch probably won’t check on us for a least a few minutes. You don’t have to go back inside or anything, but I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes or something. OK?

  I nodded.

  You can have the rest of my cup, he said as he went out into the yard. I listened to his steps quicken through the garden until I couldn’t hear them at all. The spotlighted tree was still out there, and without making a choice I was already walking out toward it, pulled by its wooden ache. Why couldn’t they turn the lights out for him? Why couldn’t they let him sleep in the dark? I stood in front of one of the spotlights on the ground and tried to cover it with my hands, but it was no use.

  Nelson, is that—

  Kitty was there, a cigarette in her hand.

  Oh, little Pew darlin’. I thought you were Nelson. He’s often running around out here at night. I usually don’t—you know this stuff will kill you, it will, but it—well, it has some good qualities … does some other things before it does you in.

  She laughed a little, a lonely laugh that ended quickly.

  This time of year—it just makes me nervous, so I let myself have one in the morning and one after dinner just for the week before the festival. She was looking past me, back toward the house where the windows glowed yellow. It’s a good time of year, a beautiful time of year, but I don’t know—it just makes me a little jittery. Her eyes looked different out here. It seemed she couldn’t bury herself in them quite as well.

  She looked up at the tree and took a long drag. Doesn’t it look like it’s about to grab something? I just love these oaks, live oaks I believe is what they call it. I wish I knew all the plant names out here, and I’ve tried, but I forget them all the time … I do know that’s a dogwood over there. She pointed with her cigarette, then took a long drag. And that’s a magnolia, both of them over there, magnolias, smaller ones. The magnolia seemed somehow exhausted, weighted and weary under all those dark green leaves.

  I do wish they bloomed this time of year. It would give me some relief. But you can tell a tree whatever you like—it won’t ever listen!

  We stood there quietly for a while, listening to her smoky breath and the faint crickets all around us.

  Strange you showed up this week of all the times you could have. Now, I don’t know what anyone has told you yet about this weekend, but it’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure Nelson would be happy to share with you what he’s learned about it—he really has come to enjoy the festival, I think, and things are much easier at school for him after it’s over. You’ll see. The time right after, everyone’s more peaceful. Of course right now it’s a little more dangerous for everyone … the week before especially. People get a little anxious I suppose. Start acting out. It’s just human nature.

  But it really does wonders for the community. I remember when we first started the festival, some years ago, and all the reverends at all the churches had to convince us it was a good thing to do, then the day after it was over I turned to Butch and said—Butch, for as much as people like to talk around here, there sure are a lot of things they don’t say!

  I watched the smoke fray in Kitty’s laughter.

  Kitty put her cigarette out on the ground, then stored it in a tiny glass jar she pulled from her purse. She looked up at me as she screwed the jar lid on tight—You know I would just about die to have skin like yours—what is that, just genetics? Does it run in the family or something? Must be. It’s like baby skin, but you aren’t so young that you’d still have your baby skin. We began walking back toward the house.

  With us—well, our skin is just falling apart from day one! Ha ha! Just wrinkled and blotchy and terrible unless you spend a lot of money on it. Ha! Isn’t it just so ugly, isn’t it though? Skin—isn’t it just terrible? It doesn’t give you a minute of rest, does it? Not a single minute!

  Nelson stood at the screened porch as we approached.

  Look who I found in the garden, Kitty said to him.

  Yep, Nelson said.

  Were you showing your new friend around the garden? Isn’t that nice?

  Kitty took a mint from her purse and put it in her mouth, then sprayed perfume in her hair and across her dress. Butch was just inside the door as we all went back inside.

  I wish you wouldn’t spray all that junk on every night, Kitty. It don’t cover nothing up anyway.

  Just having a walk is all, Kitty said. You know how I just love to see the garden at night. We were all out there walking together.

  TUESDAY

  ROGER SET A STACK of white paper and a box of colored pencils on the table before me, but I only wanted to stare out the window over the sink, watch the way the wind moved the big, flat leaves on that tree out there. Roscoe slept beneath the table. Roger kept telling me he had all day, we had all day, that we could just sit here doing nothing and that would be fine. Sometimes he’d roll a pencil toward me and suggest I co
uld draw what I was thinking, to just relax and think about where I’d come from, to relax and think about who I was and what had happened before I got here.

  It doesn’t have to be anything in particular. It can be abstract. Do you know what abstract means? It means it doesn’t look like anything real, just shapes that look like nothing, or maybe that look like a thought … or a feeling. Just shapes and colors, lines, whatever you like.

  Roger picked up a sheet of paper, took out a gray pencil, and drew a large square. He looked at the square for a moment, then drew another square inside the first one. He slid the gray pencil carefully back in the box, took out a red pencil, and drew a red line through the center of both of the squares.

  This is a picture of how I feel right now. And this is abstract, though I guess you could say it looks like something, sort of. You could say it’s a television screen or map or something, but it’s really not anything in particular. That’s what abstract means. Just feelings. Do you understand?

  I nodded. Roger nodded. He looked down at his drawing, seemed to make some sort of decision about it, then put the page aside.

  Would you like to have a try? Maybe you could draw something about how you’re feeling this morning or something you’ve felt in the past. Something about where you came from. Something you remember. It doesn’t have to be perfect. And you can start over as many times as you like—rip them up, throw out anything that doesn’t suit you. You can make as many drawings as you want.

  I thought of that white heron I’d seen flying over the edge of a darkening row of trees, just after dusk, some night I couldn’t find a church and ended up sleeping in a field. Two herons had been there, waiting for something it seemed—always it seemed as if a heron was waiting on something to happen. I watched them until it was too dark to see anything.