Of Foster Homes and Flies

by Lutzke, Chad

  As I rummage through the purse for money, I find a small notebook full of phone numbers and doodles. Mom would doodle while on the phone, leaving behind keywords from conversations scribbled on the paper, often times tracing over them until the lines were thick and bold, sometimes drawing flowers, happy faces or frowns when no word was worthy of transcribing. I flip through the book, looking at remnants of past conversations, most of it gossip between her and Helen or Jerri–her old bowling friends who shared the same interest in testing the limits of the body with hard liquor and nicotine.

  One page reads: Artwell, bingo, bushes. The word bushes being written more than a dozen times.

  Another page: Cigarettes, taxes, price, government. The word government spelled wrong and surrounded by a crowd of frowns.

  And another: Trains, every morning. Accompanied by a furrow-browed stick figure with its middle finger in the air.

  Finally, toward the back of the book, a page catches my attention. Mostly because of the large word at the top that has been retraced to the point of ripping through into the pages beneath, as though done in anger. The word says Denny. The rest of the page is blank except for four more words near the bottom:

  Abortion, should have had. Followed by a series of exclamation points.

  I stare at the word, and I’m trying to come up with different reasons why it’d be written. I can think of none. Tears well up in my eyes and flow down my face–a new routine apparently. I scream, loudly. Had Mr. Artwell not been at bingo or fetching beer or cigars, he would hear me. Any remaining sympathy I have for Mom is gone. I don’t care anymore. For years I’ve pretended like things aren’t bad, convincing those who knew Mom that everything is fine, that she loved me despite the way things may look. And right now, on these old steps, with these words in my hand, I’m glad she’s dead. I dump her purse on the porch and grab her pocketbook. It holds two $20.00 bills, a $10.00 bill, and $3.75 in quarters. I take it all and head to the hardware store before it closes. And with hate in my heart and tears in my eyes, I buy $20.00 worth of plastic and a roll of duct tape.

  Afterward, I stop at the gas station and buy a coke and all the candy and chips I can afford.

  ***

  As I approach the house and see the contents of Mom’s purse strewn about the porch, I realize how bad it looks and consider myself lucky that the mail had already been delivered.

  I eat my candy there on the porch out of spite until I can feel my stomach trying to reason with my vengeful attitude, and it no longer makes sense to make myself sick because my mother never loved me. I pick up Mom’s things and shove them into her purse. I spot the notebook–the damned thing. I open it so the pages are spread and take Mom’s lighter to it, right there on the porch. Part of me wants to open the door and toss the words into the living room, burning up Mom and everything she owned, leaving only her wicked bones and an empty glass bottle by her side. Her legacy.

  I watch the notebook burn, leaving behind a blackened metal spiral. Then I grab the roll of plastic, Mom’s purse and the duct tape and head inside. My anger turns to heartache, then resentment, and for a while I use it to fend off the intense odor, ignoring it while I think of the task at hand: Wrapping up Mom.

  The plastic is thick and hard to manipulate. It takes me nearly half an hour and two trips outside for fresh air to wrap Mom. At least a few dozen flies pester me as I do the best I can to tuck the plastic underneath her. Once I’m done and the plastic and tape are gone, I notice a small spot that remains uncovered: Part of her head. I’m not concerned because the sheet still remains over the area and I need to get away from the stench and the ever-growing cloud of flies. It’ll have to do. After one more break outside I run upstairs and take a cool shower.

  After my shower I come back downstairs. I can’t be sure but I think the plastic is already helping with the smell. I unplug Mom’s TV and take it upstairs to my room. I set the TV on my dresser, plug it in, hook up the little antenna and turn it on. I go back downstairs and make sure the house is locked up. I bump into Ingrid’s bowls while in the kitchen. They’re dry and empty. I start wondering how long it’ll be before she gets a home. I’m sure not too long. She’s a good dog. I miss her.

  I grab a bag of chips, my coke, and a loaf of bread and run back upstairs. As I sit on my bed, clean and cooled by the shower, surrounded by food and a remote control in my hand, I feel free. Not swinging-in-the-park-with-a-beautiful-girl free, but a different kind of free, like no one to answer to. No drunken repercussions to deal with. Though I’ve spent the last four years taking care of myself–a latchkey kid with one parent alive but dormant–and I could have snuck every bit of junk food I’d ever want to my room, or left the house in the middle of the night–even skipped a week of school–this is different. No one is around to scream, belittle or discourage. The oppression is gone. Until now it’s been an unbearable weight upon me, and now for the first time since Dad died, it isn’t there. Maybe living in a foster home won’t be so bad. Maybe it’ll be the best thing that has ever happened to me. Maybe not.

  I light some incense, and after a few hours of TV I open the window and stare at the stars while New Orleans serenades me with its symphony of traffic and trains; the occasional pedestrian scuttling their feet. I lay my pillow on the sill. And with my head outside smelling the night air, I fall asleep and dream of foster homes and flies.

  Tuesday

  7:10 a.m.

  I spring out of bed when the alarm goes off and run to the calendar on the wall. I cross yesterday’s date off and stare at the square for tomorrow that holds the words “BEE!”. I can’t believe tomorrow is the day. Win or lose, tomorrow night I’ll be able to say I tried. And while some may think what I’ve done the past week has been heartless, disgusting, or even insane, I’m proud.

  I think I was right. The plastic is working. Though Mom no doubt has gotten worse underneath it all, the air doesn’t reflect that. It’s back to being bearable, at least in my room it is. And it’s not like I’ve gotten used to it either. Call it determination. Before Aunt Sunny went and chased her dream, she used to say: “You gotta keep your eyes on the prize, and let nothing deter you.” I wasn’t sure what deter meant at the time but now I have a pretty good idea.

  Deter. D.E.T.E.R. Deter.

  12:20 p.m.

  I see Carter at lunch. He says he’s been trying to call me, says he wanted to know if I wanted to ride bikes yesterday. I’d forgotten I never plugged the phone back in. But when I think about it, it seems like a good idea to keep it that way. I have no idea what I’ll say if someone calls and asks for Mom. Her friends know she rarely leaves the house. I can only say she’s napping or bathing so many times before someone gets suspicious.

  Before I go back to class, I peek in the auditorium and picture myself up on the stage, people watching, admiring, clapping as I spell every word thrown at me. Maybe Dad watching me from above. Maybe.

  Tomorrow night I’ll be up there.

  2:45 p.m.

  After school I drop my bag off on the porch and jump on my bike and meet Carter in the fields behind the school. I show Carter the clearing and he talks about all the things we could do there, all the potential the place has. I just listen. I don’t tell him it’ll just be him after Wednesday. I also don’t tell him about Sam. I know he won’t get it, and he’ll just razz me for not trying to kiss her.

  We spend the rest of the afternoon riding on the dirt trails, adding even more dirt to the jumps, making them higher, more daring. After a few hours we head to the gas station and I buy us cokes and a candy bar from more money I found in the house. We sit on the curb and watch people enter empty handed, then exit with brown paper bags filled with clanking bottles, or smacking fresh packs of cigarettes against their palms.

  “So tomorrow’s the day, huh?” Carter asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Nervous?”

  I think about it for a moment and realize I’m not. The past several days have given me a different perspective.
I feel like I’ve already won because I’ve tried so hard. Another bit of advice Aunt Sunny gave me once or twice: “All you can do is try your best.” I can’t remember why she’d said it, to whom, or regarding what. But it was her. I can hear her saying it now.

  “Nope, not at all.”

  “You liar.” Carter says it with a friendly tone, oblivious to the irony of him calling me a liar.

  “No, really. I’m just not.” I want to talk to Carter about perspective and hiding loved one's bodies and trying to sleep with the smell of death creeping upstairs. But I don’t. I keep it to myself; every detail of the morbid adventure I’ve had the past several days.

  It gets close to supper so Carter and I part ways. As I head home I realize it’s these moments that hit me hardest–not sitting in my room or hours at school, but the road home where I’m forced to think about things I’d rather not. I can smell fried food in the air and my stomach reacts with a gurgle. I remember there’s still some bread left and even some peanut butter, though the jelly is in the fridge. I consider braving the smell to get to it.

  6:00 p.m.

  Mr. Artwell watches me as I unlock the door and run inside, slamming the door–probably too hard–and locking it behind me. I feel like I’ve been too conspicuous. Like a thief pacing for too long near his target, looking back and forth, sending tells to anyone near that he’s up to no good.

  The smell seems to have plateaued. Repugnant, yes. But no longer escalating like you might think. Or maybe I really have gotten used to it. A disturbing thought, being used to the smell of a rotting loved one.

  Loved one.

  The house is hot as usual, hotter even. As I pass near Mom, I can hear the pitter patter of flies flying and bouncing, flying and bouncing within the maze-like creases of the plastic. The amount of flies is stunning. Hundreds that I can see, and I imagine thousands if I were to unwrap Mom. The area I failed to cover catches my eye. The sheet is moving with chaotic pulsations. Small bodies–be it maggots or the full grown equivalent–swim in a restless sea on her head under the sheet. I picture them erupting from her face, from every orifice. And the stench hits me as though for the first time. I throw up, the vomit catching the TV stand and splashing onto my shirt.

  As I stand bent, hands on knees and recovering, there’s a knock at the front door directly behind me.

  I freeze. I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. I don’t swallow–only glare at the door.

  “Debbie? We’re here!”

  I look at the clock. Just after 6:00 p.m. It’s Tuesday. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten. Every other Tuesday at 6:00, Mom’s two friends–Helen and Jerri–come over to play Cribbage, fill an ashtray or two, and empty a few bottles.

  They knock again.

  “Deb? It’s us. I hope you’re ready for a whuppin’.”

  The door’s knob resists being turned and shifts loosely in the door.

  Knock, knock, knock, knock!

  “Deb?”

  I can hear one tell the other to go around back and look through the slider. I think about running to Carter’s, hiding out. But what if they just barge in or call the police, worried about Mom. I need to stay here. I need to answer the door.

  Before they leave to check the back, and without having a plan at all, I unlock the door and open it, standing there in the narrow gap, blocking their entrance. With sun hats over their blush-painted faces and shorts that reveal outrageously white calves, there stands Helen and Jerri–both holding tight to purses the size of small suitcases, and paper bags filled with the very poison that no doubt killed Mom.

  “Why hello, Den…”

  The women simultaneously cover their upper lips with their arms and furrow their brows. They can smell my mother.

  “Mom’s not feeling well.”

  “My Lord, sweetie. What is that god-awful reek?” Helen asks.

  “And what’s all over your shirt? You get the sick on you, honey?”

  “Yeah, none of us feel well. Ingrid too. We’re all puking...and diarrhea. It’s bad.”

  The flies buzz behind me, pittering and pattering within the plastic. The sound is booming, echoing. I’ve no doubt the women can hear it. And like mimicking Poe’s Telltale Heart, I nearly throw open the door and show them Mom, screaming at the top of my lungs that there she is, dead and filled with the offspring of flies underneath $20.00 worth of plastic.

  Helen yells past me through the doorway. “Deb. You okay in there? You guys need anything?” She then goes back to covering her face and even takes a step back.

  Pitter, patter, buzz.

  “She’s actually in the bathroom right now puking. I was helping her when you knocked.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Pitter, patter, buzz.

  "Well, you tell her we were here with bells on. I’d hate to think she thought we never showed.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “I even bought us some new cards.” Jerri pats her purse, signifying the cards are inside.

  “I’ll tell her. Thank you, ladies.”

  “They even have daisies on them. Deb loves her daisies.”

  Pitter, patter, buzz.

  “Please excuse me. I really need to get back to Mom.”

  “Oh, of course, honey. You be on your way, now.”

  “Yes, bless you, sweetie.”

  It’s both irritating and amusing to see two women “ladying” themselves up with words like bless you and honey, too much makeup and giant hats, while carrying fifths of vodka and reeking of roses dipped in nicotine.

  “Thanks.” I shut the door and lock it, then I peek through the curtain and listen until they leave. For another minute or two they stand on the porch talking about the smell and how they hope they didn’t just get sick through the door and that if they did they will most certainly have the windows open to air the house out and that we must have all let loose on the floor right there in the living room to cause such an odor.

  When they’re gone I get a towel and clean up the mess I made, brush my teeth, and change my shirt. I decide to go ahead and open the fridge for the jelly. The smell isn’t as bad now that the fridge is chilled again. I see a few cokes in there so I grab those too. I make my sandwich and head to my room and read The Temple of Gold. After a good hour between the pages, my attention drifts to the bee, to Mom, and to the idea of getting caught before tomorrow. To distract myself, I turn on the TV for a while until I start to doze. I don’t sleep with my head out the window again because it’s too hot to have it open, so I light the incense and lie down on a wet towel. Wafts of the incense smoke surround my bed and I lie there and imagine I’ve been laid out on an altar as an offering to an alien being or monster from the greatest depths of the sea.

  When I fall asleep I don’t dream at all.

  Wednesday

  6:30 a.m.

  I wake up refreshed and ready for the day. I’m out of the shower and dressed half an hour before the alarm even goes off. I sit on my bed and go through a list of words I made last week. At this point it feels like learning my primary colors again or how to count to ten or tie my shoes. Unnecessary lessons.

  I try and read for a while but keep reading the same paragraph over and over again, unable to focus. I turn on the television and catch most of a few episodes of a sitcom that I’m sure I’ve heard Mr. Artwell hum more than once, then I pack up my stuff for school and head downstairs. There’s still some bread left so I make toast and even get the butter from the fridge. I grab the cinnamon and sugar from Mom’s spice rack. The smell of the toast reminds me of Sambo’s and my time there with Sam and the story about the woman who fed her family toast and water.

  Butter sandwiches and water after today. Every day.

  I hold my breath and pass by Mom on my way out. The flies are louder than ever. I can’t think about them or what they’ve done to Mom right now. I’ve got to eat and focus on the day ahead. I guard my toast close to me. I don’t want flies landing on it. I head outside and lock the door. Mr. Artwell h
ears me, nods his head. He’s got a plate full of bacon; he’s dipping it in something. Syrup? I nod back and run for the tracks, chomping down on my toast along the way.

  12:10 p.m.

  I eat lunch with Carter in the cafeteria. I’m not hungry at all but I know I should eat. It’ll help. I pick at my food and take small bites. Carter is talking away, something about going to the movies last night and getting to second base with Betty Mason, but don’t ask her about it because it’s their secret. I’m quiet and politely listen to the lie. But he can tell I’m nervous and calls me on it.

  “See? I knew it...you are nervous.”

  He’s right. I am. But not so much about the bee. I’ve come all this way with only hours to wait, and all day I’m watching the door like any minute the principal and a social worker with their angry, disgusted faces are going to interrupt class and take me away. First they’ll interrogate me in a room with a camera mounted on the wall, asking if I killed my mother, where’s her poor dog, why is Mom wrapped in plastic, did I suffocate her as she slept. Then they’ll decide whether I need to go to the juvenile home or the orphanage. I realize I don’t care which. They’re both the same to me.

  Carter gives me a little pep talk. “Don’t be. You’ve been preparing like...all year. Besides, it’s just a spelling bee.”

  Preparing. P.R.E.P.A.R.I.N.G. Preparing.

  We finish lunch and head back to class, where the minutes creep by like years.

  2:10 p.m.

  I don’t hear a word the teacher says all day. It’s a good thing school ends in two days. But no homework is handed out, and as far as I can tell we don’t have anything to do from here until we’re all seventh graders. Even the next two days are half days. Why make us come at all?