Beauty of the Broken

by Tawni Waters

  So this is my way of doing something. Come for us, Willy. Me and Iggy. Save us. We’re still at the old farm. If you come, we will go with you. We’ll leave everything.

  I lie awake at night thinking about my wasted life. It wouldn’t be wasted if I’d married you. Maybe it wouldn’t be so wasted if we were all a family. You, me, and Iggy. Come for us, Willy. We will wait.

  All my love,

  Cora

  The pink paper trembles in my hands. I stare at the letters, hoping they will change, say something else. I tell myself she didn’t mean it. My stupid Momma who couldn’t keep her skirt down with stupid Bucktoothed Willy didn’t mean a thing she wrote.

  After crumpling up the letter, I open the door and throw it as hard as I can into the hallway. It lands behind a potted plant. I close the door and bury my face in my pillow and scream.

  I’ve lost my mother. In her mind, she’s run away with her true family, leaving me to be damned with him.

  CHAPTER 7

  HENRY’S TELLING ME WHY HE doesn’t like tater tots. Apparently, when he was four, he bit into a rotten one. Not that his story isn’t scintillating, but I still can’t help but watch the cafeteria door, waiting for Xylia.

  “My father says I should get back on the horse, so to speak, but I just haven’t been able to do it,” he tells me, shaking his head sadly as he stares at his little brown mound of tater tots. “You can have mine if you want them.”

  “Thanks.” I grab my spoon and scoop his tater tots onto my tray.

  It’s the first day back at school after my party. Henry just sat down next to me like it was the way things were supposed to be. Which is okay, though I’m not sure I like the idea of him horning in on my time with Xylia. I intend to ask her to sit with me the minute she walks into the cafeteria. But I guess Henry will be sitting with us too.

  “What about you?” he asks, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

  “What about me?”

  “Do you like tater tots?”

  “I wouldn’t have taken yours if I didn’t.”

  “Good point.” Henry takes a gulp of milk. “What foods don’t you like?”

  Dear God, will he shut up? I mean, I like Henry, but I’m afraid that if I look away from the door, I’ll miss Xylia. “I hate peas.” Which wasn’t actually true until the other night¸ but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “That’s a common one,” he says, like he’s taking a survey or something. The kid is weird.

  Finally, there’s Xylia. She’s wearing these tight black pants with tall boots. She reminds me of the Highwayman, the way the poem talks about his boots being up to his thighs. She has on jangly silver earrings and about a million bracelets. Like a maniac, I wave my hand in the air. “Xylia!”

  She smiles and waves back. She doesn’t look like a maniac though.

  “I saved a place for you!”

  Grinning, she gives me a thumbs-up and steps in line to get her tray. Henry drones on about something, but I can’t really hear him. It’s like there is no room inside my head for anything but Xylia. Definitely not for whatever Henry’s saying.

  Xylia moves as gracefully as the deer in the forest by our house. People ignore her, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with them. It’s like being unimpressed by the Taj Mahal.

  Finally she comes to sit with us. She’s close enough that I can feel the warmth from her body. It’s a miracle, having her beside me. It’s like the way Mary in the church window must have felt kissing Jesus’s feet. I would kiss Xylia’s feet. I’d kiss her everything.

  “Holy frijole, Batman,” she says as she piles pickles onto her hamburger. “What a day.”

  “Do you read comic books?” Henry pipes in, and I want to smack him.

  “No, but I used to watch reruns of Batman when I was a kid.”

  “Why has it been a bad day?” I ask, resisting the urge to reach out and brush a stray strand of hair from her eyes.

  “We started trigonometry,” she says. “I suck at it.”

  “I can’t imagine you sucking at anything,” I say.

  “Yeah,” says Henry.

  Don’t make me kill you, short one. Inside my head, I sound like a ninja.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” Xylia says. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m good at some stuff. I’m an English whiz. It’s in my blood, for fuck’s sake. My dad’s a writer.”

  “Really?” I ask. She just said “fuck.” No one in this school ever says “fuck” right out loud. I mean, maybe they whisper it in the bathrooms or whatever. But in the cafeteria? Never.

  “Yep,” she says. “His third novel just came out last year.”

  “Are you rich?” asks Henry.

  She laughs. “Hardly. Being a writer isn’t as exciting as you’d think. We could barely keep the lights on.” She pops a tater tot into her mouth. She’s wearing a big ring on her pointer finger. It has a shining woman painted on it.

  “I like your ring,” I tell her.

  “Thanks,” she says. “My mom got it for me in Mexico. It’s the Virgin of Guadalupe.”

  “She’s beautiful.” The Virgin of Guadalupe’s smile reminds me of Xylia’s.

  “Yeah, I dig her. I’m not Catholic or anything, but I love the idea of the feminine divine, you know?”

  I don’t know. “Is that like a girl God?” The idea is so weird to me, I can’t even pretend not to be surprised.

  “Yeah,” she says. “It’s the female half of God.”

  “The female half,” I repeat.

  “My tribe believes God is both male and female,” Henry says. Through his thick glasses, his eyes are earnest.

  “Really?” I ask, still stunned.

  “Sure,” Henry says. “Why not? Look around you. People. Animals. Insects. Even flowers are all male and female. Why wouldn’t God be both?”

  I don’t know what to say.

  Xylia leans in close and puts her hand on my knee. Her touch makes me dizzy. “You don’t mean to tell me you seriously buy all this big, white, pissed-off-guy-in-the-sky stuff they peddle around here?”

  “I guess I just never thought of God as being any other way.” I wonder if I should put my hand on her knee too. Her hair smells fresh, like shampoo.

  She takes her hand off my knee, picks up her fork, and moves the green beans around on her tray. The place where her hand was feels cold now. “I was lucky, I guess. My parents always encouraged me to think of God as too big for one definition. My mom collects images of goddesses, but the Virgin of Guadalupe is definitely her favorite.”

  “Well, if you wanted, I could come over to help you with your math,” I offer. “And maybe you can show me your mom’s goddess collection.” I feel like a sinner for wanting to see her goddesses. I’m pretty sure they stoned people in the Bible for stuff like that, but I’d do anything to visit Xylia’s house.

  “That would be cool,” she says. “My mom would love to show them off.”

  “Well, I’d love to see them,” I say. I wonder if the others in her mom’s collection are as pretty as the one on Xylia’s finger. “And trigonometry’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it,” I add.

  “Doesn’t surprise me that you’re good at it,” Xylia says. “That’s why my mom sent me here. She said this school has the best test scores in the state.”

  “We do,” I say too quickly.

  “Well, then, it’s a date! You sure you don’t mind?”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say. “It’ll be fun.” But all I can hear is her calling it a date.

  “Math just isn’t my thing, you know?”

  “What is your thing?” Henry asks.

  “Wow,” she says, leaning back a little, really thinking about the question. “Well, poetry, for one. I just love the music of the words, you know? Like, when you hear a really good phrase, it’s so beautiful, so visceral, like an orgasm or something.” I almost die when she says “orgasm.” I can’t help but picture her having one. My face gets so hot, I think the whole cafeteria must not
ice how red I am. “And music. I love music, too. The older stuff. The Doors, Janis Joplin, Bob Dylan.”

  I nod. I vaguely remember that the Doors sang, “I’m gonna love you till the heavens stop the rain.” I know right then I will love Xylia that long. I can’t explain how I know it. It’s as if something inside me has known Xylia for a million years. Maybe reincarnation is real, and I feel like this because I’ve known her since the beginning of time.

  “I love dancing, too,” she says. “I took ballet most of my life, but there’s no studio here, so I practice on my own.”

  “I’d love to watch you dance sometime,” I tell her.

  “Maybe when you come over to tutor me, we can dance together.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t dance.”

  Xylia throws back her head and laughs. “Of course you dance! Everyone dances.”

  “I’m really bad,” I say.

  Xylia looks into my eyes, like she’s delivering the secrets of the universe. “Listen to me, Mara,” she says, and my name sounds like music coming from her lips. “There’s no such thing as a bad dancer.”

  CHAPTER 8

  MOMMA, REMEMBER THAT GIRL, XYLIA, from my party?” I ask over dinner—pot roast, buttered corn, and green Jell-O salad. Momma has burned the roast, so the house has taken on a charred smell, but Daddy just cut off the edges of his meat and told her it was the best roast he’d ever had. Daddy’s good like that when he’s not mad.

  “Xylia?” Daddy chews his meat like a cow chewing cud. “What kind of a name is that?”

  “A pretty one,” I say defensively, and then I worry that he will know right then that I want to kiss her and will take a two-by-four to my head.

  “It’s weird if you ask me” is all he says.

  “Anyway, Momma.” I turn away from Daddy, who I want to poke with my knife for insulting Xylia. “She invited me over on Thursday to help her with trigonometry.”

  “Is she paying you?” Daddy asks.

  “I don’t want her to.” I reach for the salt so I won’t have to look at Daddy. “She’s my friend.”

  “Russ.” Momma uses her sexy voice and touches her cleavage. “A lady doesn’t ask a friend for money. It’s not proper.”

  Daddy snorts, “You women and your pansy-ass friendships.” But he sounds pacified. “Pansy-ass!” Iggy repeats, laughing.

  “It’s good that Mara’s making friends,” Momma says quickly. “She’s never had friends before.”

  I clear my throat. “Why are you talking about me in the third person? I’m right here.”

  Momma smiles apologetically. “Xylia sounds wonderful, honey. Tell me about her.”

  “She’s smart.” My cheeks flush. I could talk about Xylia all day. “And she’s a dancer.”

  Momma leans in, interested. “What kind of dance?”

  “Ballet,” I say.

  “Did I ever tell you I took ballet when I was young?”

  “Was it hard?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah. Bar work alone was enough to knock me out.”

  “Bar work?”

  Momma nods. “An hour of bar work before we even started dancing.”

  “Were you any good?”

  Momma tries to look modest. She fails miserably. “Let’s just say Miss Eva was not easily impressed, but she certainly thought I showed promise.”

  “Can you teach me some moves?” Maybe Momma can give me a quick lesson so I won’t feel so stupid when I dance with Xylia.

  Momma looks like she just won the lottery. “Of course!” She stands and puts her hand on the back of her chair. “This is plié,” she says, squatting low and moving her hand gracefully in front of her. “You try.”

  I stand and mimic Momma.

  “Good!” she says. “But turn your toes out a bit.”

  Daddy grabs Momma’s butt. She squeals. So does Iggy.

  Momma slaps playfully at Daddy. “Russ!”

  Daddy roars, as if Momma’s protest is the best joke he has ever heard. I can see my ballet lesson is over. I sit down. So does Momma, her face red. “Well, that was nice of you to offer to tutor your friend, sweetie, but you’ll have to do it another night. Thursday’s Iggy’s birthday.”

  Iggy grins, wriggling in his chair. “My birthday!” Clearly he didn’t realize his birthday was approaching. It makes me sad for a minute. Last year, when he was turning seventeen, he planned his birthday for weeks, not a party, because that was out of the question, but private activities. Reading poems about the meaning of life. Sitting under the stars until midnight and wishing on the moon as the next year of his life began. This year he’s legally an adult, and he’s a little less smart than he was in fourth grade.

  I’d feel bad about not remembering his birthday, but since he didn’t even remember himself, it doesn’t seem like that big a deal. I’m disappointed I can’t see Xylia Thursday, but I don’t want to hurt Iggy’s feelings. “Eighteen.” Grinning, I punch Iggy in the arm. “My big bro is getting old.”

  Iggy laughs.

  Iggy and I are both Pisces. Last year, when I read our horoscope aloud over breakfast, Momma sent me to my room for studying astrology, which is apparently a sin. I still read my horoscope in the newspaper sometimes. Today it said I should expect wonderful surprises. It was pretty right on, with Xylia inviting me over to her house, so I don’t care what Momma says. From now on I’m reading my horoscope.

  Daddy looks at Momma with that hungry-wolf look he gets sometimes. I know what he wants, and it makes me sick, but I’m also happy he wants it, because wanting it and getting it both seem to put him in a good mood. I feel like he needs to be in a good mood just now, as we are discussing Iggy’s birthday, and anything that has to do with Iggy is always a danger zone. I’m pretty sure Momma waited until Daddy was looking at her like that to bring up the subject. Momma’s smarter than I give her credit for.

  Grabbing Momma’s butt seems to have worked its magic on Daddy. He clears his throat, staring at Iggy with a half smile. “The boy is almost a man.”

  Iggy gets so proud and red, I think his face is going to spontaneously combust, the way Mr. Farley said can happen when there’s a demonic influence. Iggy touches the tines of his fork to the little yellow flowers on his plate, smiling.

  “Practically a man,” Momma echoes, plopping another load of Jell-O on Iggy’s plate. Little dabs of it land on her embroidered tablecloth. “I think this calls for a celebration. Excuse me, please.” She pushes away from the table and saunters to the kitchen. I wonder if she’s going to give Iggy a party too. I hear her rustling around in the cupboard where she keeps her cookbooks. “What kind of cake would you like, Iggy?” she calls.

  Iggy giggles. “I don’t know.”

  Daddy grimaces. “It’s a simple question.” He takes a bite of roast and chews it loudly. I hate the way Daddy can go from glad to mad in two seconds flat. It’s probably the worst thing about him, which is saying something, considering all the things that are wrong with him. I hate being in the same room with him, even when he’s happy. You never know what’s gonna set off his temper. I’m pretty sure Iggy isn’t getting a party.

  “Come on, Iggy,” I prod. “Just tell Momma what kind of cake is your favorite. Chocolate, right?”

  “Chocolate!” he yells, raising his fork in the air as if he is brandishing a spear.

  “Keep your voice down,” Daddy snaps. Iggy lowers the fork. I can feel Daddy’s mood changing the way old men sense weather changes in their bones.

  “Chocolate?” Momma’s voice tinkles. “Why, wouldn’t you know my boy’s favorite cake is also my own? I’m going to make you a chocolate cake, Iggy. I’m going to make it special, from scratch.”

  I poke at my pot roast, praying. Just let us get through this conversation without anyone getting hurt. I look at Daddy. He’s staring at the table, his face blank. He’s deciding how to feel. It could go either way. Come on, Momma, I think. If there was ever a time to flash some cleavage, it’s now.

  “I get a cake,” I
ggy informs me. He takes a gulp of milk, and when he pulls the glass away, he has a thin white mustache.

  “Yep,” I say. “That’s cool.” I move my fork around on my plate, making ugly scraping noises.

  “Momma’s gonna make it special,” he says, shoving a spoonful of green Jell-O into his mouth.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I say, trying to beat Daddy to the punch.

  “For God’s sake, listen to your sister. Keep your mouth closed when you chew.” Daddy helps himself to another slab of meat and shakes his head at me, as if we’re the only adults in the house.

  “Just three more days,” Iggy says, holding up three fingers.

  I wonder if Iggy has a manual inside his head called How to Piss Off Daddy with Every Move You Make. He’s acting like a two-year-old. It’s making Daddy mad, never mind that he’s the one who broke Iggy’s brain. I’m starting to get really scared, when Momma waltzes in. She takes these short little ballet steps and then pliés right in front of Daddy, so her butt is in his face.

  I watch Daddy, waiting to see what he’ll do. “Now that’s what I call a rump roast,” he says with a guffaw.

  I have never, ever been happier to see my daddy grope my momma’s ass.

  • • •

  Three days later Iggy and I come home from school to find the house all decorated with blue streamers. In the doorway Momma has hung a handmade sign, made from a piece of butcher paper. Happy birthday, Iggy!!!! it says in bubble letters. Momma’s favorite Ethel Merman CD is playing.

  Dropping his backpack, Iggy starts to laugh. “Momma, look! A birthday poster! For me!” He runs his finger under his name on the sign. “Iggy,” he pronounces proudly.

  “Iggy,” I sigh. “Pick up your mess. I’m not your maid.”

  Ignoring me, he throws his coat on the floor and runs to the kitchen. I pick up his backpack and lug it to the table. It’s heavy. I remind myself that it’s his birthday, that I should be extra nice to him today. It’s hard because I could be at Xylia’s, and instead, I’m here. Tomorrow I will be at Xylia’s though, looking at her momma’s goddess collection, telling her about the Pythagorean trigonometric identity. This makes me happy again. I pick up Iggy’s coat and hang it on a hook by the door. Then I follow him into the kitchen. He’s standing there wrapped in Momma’s arms, while Momma beams, saying, “My gosh, baby. You grew faster than a bedbug.”