Beauty of the Broken

by Tawni Waters

  “Thank you,” she says. She seems suddenly shy.

  “Our mom worries too,” Iggy says again.

  By my foot, nestled in the river mud, is a quarter-size frog, so shiny green his skin sparkles in the dying sunlight.

  “Look,” I whisper.

  Xylia and Iggy look where I’m pointing, and without speaking, we agree to make a game of catching the frog. Iggy tiptoes around behind it while Xylia and me crouch in the mud, forming cups with our fingers, waiting like baseball catchers for the frog to come our way.

  Iggy brings his hands slowly down, but before they close over the small, shiny body, the frog hops. I barely have to move. He leaps into the air, and with a small shift of my hands, I’m holding his slick body.

  “Hiya, little fella.”

  He chirps his frantic reply.

  Clustering together, the three of us study him, his tiny webbed feet, his bulging eyes, his lumpy hide, his tight line of a mouth.

  “He looks like a balloon someone blew up too big.” Xylia giggles.

  “I think he’s beautiful,” I say.

  “We should probably let him go, though, right?” Xylia says. “I mean, it seems like he’ll be happier here than in some jar.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and I put my hands to the ground. The frog hops away.

  “You look pretty,” I tell Xylia, blushing.

  She grins. “Thanks. You too.”

  My legs feel weak. I’m afraid if I try to stand, I’ll fall.

  “Our momma worries too,” Iggy says.

  Xylia and me look at one another and laugh.

  We wander home together, our wet feet slap-slapping against the road. For a moment, Xylia and I clasp hands. I never want her to let go.

  It’s not until bedtime that Iggy remembers we left my angel by the water. The next day we try to find her, but the river’s swallowed her.

  CHAPTER 12

  AS PREDICTED, A BLIZZARD BLANKETS Barnaby in white just when we’re all starting to believe spring has sprung. Some of the trees have been fooled into blossoming, and now, their buds will die. They’ll bear no fruit this year. The good news is we get a snow day.

  I still get up early, when it’s dark. My alarm clock didn’t get the memo about the day off. Iggy’s must have because I can hear him snoring through his bedroom door. I bet he’ll sleep most of the day, the way he always does on snow days. I wander into the living room. Momma’s wrapped in a quilt, reading from the Bible, which I have never seen her do outside of church. She closes it when I enter. “Just trying to make sense of things,” she says, embarrassed.

  I sit down beside her, tracing the gold lettering on the cover. “Did it help?” I ask.

  She stares out the window. “The parts where it said, ‘God is love,’ made me feel better.”

  Muffled by the snowfall, the world outside is so quiet that her breathing is all there is for me. I can feel her sadness. Her desperation. I want to fix it, but how the hell do you fix a mess like that? “I think maybe those are the parts we’re supposed to believe,” I say. I lean my head on her shoulder. The sharpness of her shoulder blade cuts into my cheek.

  “You think?” She drapes an arm around me.

  “I do,” I say.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  We stare out the window together, watching the snow flurry and fall. “Where’s Daddy?” I ask.

  “Out plowing,” she answers. Sometimes when it snows, Daddy makes extra cash by clearing people’s driveways, which means he will be gone all day. When he’s out with the plow, he doesn’t come home until long after dark. My heart leaps.

  “Momma, would it be okay if I invited a friend over?”

  She shrugs. “Well, I suppose. As long as they leave before Daddy gets home.”

  I bolt from the couch and toward the kitchen, where our only phone is. Daddy doesn’t believe in cell phones because they’re expensive and might cause cancer. At least that’s what he says. I think he just wants to make sure he can control who we talk to.

  “It’s a little early to be making phone calls,” Momma says.

  I stop. “You’re right.” I look at the clock and sigh. It’s not even seven. I can’t call Xylia until at least eight. “You want me to make you some coffee?” I ask Momma.

  “I’d like that.” Her eyes are far away. I love her so much, as screwed up as she is. I think about God being love. Whether God is a man or a woman or a ball of light, God has to be love, because if a little girl like me can love a broken woman like Momma, shouldn’t a great big God be able to love her even more?

  I go to the kitchen and get out the Folgers, the filters, and the flavored creamer Momma likes best. While I make the coffee, I try to fill it with peace. It’s weird, I know, but why not? “Can’t hurt. Might help.” That’s what Grandma used to say before she moved to Albuquerque. It’s weird that I even remember her saying that, because I was in kindergarten when she left, and Daddy never lets us visit her. When she asks to visit us, he always makes excuses. He tells Momma that Grandma is a shrew, but I don’t remember her that way. “Can’t hurt. Might help,” she’d say as she pressed a cool ice cube to mosquito bites on my knee that were driving me crazy.

  The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour some into Momma’s favorite mug, the one that says, Expect a miracle. I wonder if that’s what’s kept her going all these years, thinking a miracle might be hiding just around the next corner. I put in lots of creamer, the way she likes it, and take it to her. The Bible is sitting closed on the coffee table, and she’s back to reading Cosmopolitan magazine, like always.

  “What do you think of this hairstyle?” she asks.

  The model has shaggy bangs, lots of layers. “Looks like it would be a ton of work to keep up,” I say.

  She sighs, as if this news has deflated her completely. “I suppose you’re right,” she says, closing the magazine.

  “But I bet you could pull it off,” I add quickly. “Everyone says you look like you should be in a magazine.”

  She smiles. “Did I ever tell you I was Miss Teenage New Mexico?”

  “Really?” I say, genuinely impressed. She’s never told me that, and I can’t imagine why. She picks up the Bible and opens it, pulls out a stack of photographs, and shuffles through them. Placing one carefully in my hand, she says, “See?” Her voice is tinged with wonder, as if she can’t believe she was this girl in the photo, this beaming, glorious creature wearing a shimmering tiara and a sash that proves her boast true. Miss Teenage New Mexico. She’s holding a huge bouquet of roses, and the beauty queens who didn’t win stand around her in a semicircle trying to look happy for her.

  “You were gorgeous,” I say, stunned not just by her beauty, but by the hope that radiates from her eyes.

  She smiles. “We had to do this dance, all of us, to open the pageant. We danced to Ethel Merman.”

  “The circus song?” I suddenly understand why Momma is always listening to that CD.

  “Yes,” she says. “The circus song. I wore a sequined bodysuit, like a tightrope walker, for that number.”

  “I bet you were amazing. You’re a great dancer.”

  She beams.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  She takes the picture away and tucks it back into the Bible. “What’s the point talking about dead dreams?” She slams the book shut. “Go call that girlfriend of yours.”

  My heartbeat quickens. Does she know how I feel about Xylia? No. She always refers to her friends as girlfriends. “When I was in high school, my girlfriend Sasha was the captain of the cheerleading squad,” she’ll say.

  I start toward the kitchen, but she stops me.

  “Mara,” Momma calls.

  I turn.

  “If ever, ever you have a chance at happiness, take it, no matter what. Don’t end up like me.” She looks like she might cry.

  I can’t tell her that the thought of ending up like her scares me more than anything in the world, so instead I say, “Why wouldn’t I wa
nna end up like you? You’re beautiful, Momma.”

  “Go call your girlfriend,” she says.

  The phone rings three times, and then Xylia’s voice mail picks up. A rock song plays in the background, and she says, “Hey, it’s Xylia. Odds are good that I’m busy falling in love with something. Leave me a message, and if I like you, I’ll call you back.” I’ve heard the message several times now, but every time it makes my pulse pound. “Odds are good that I’m busy falling in love with something.” Let it be me. Let it be me.

  I leave a message. “Hey, Xylia. I, um, just thought it might be fun if you came over, since we have the day off. We could build a snow fort or something. Oh, this is Mara. Bye.”

  I hang up, wanting to smack myself in the face with the phone. Has a dumber voice mail ever been left in the history of voice mails? I meant the part about the snow fort as a joke, but she probably won’t get that, and then she’ll think I’m some juvenile from the time warp that took her away from San Francisco.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee, lots of creamer, just like Momma, and sit down by the phone, willing it to ring. I have gone through three cups of coffee by the time it does.

  My heart goes crazy. I’m not sure what causes it—the caffeine or the fact that it might be Xylia.

  “Hello,” I answer, my voice sounding shakier than I mean it to.

  “Hello, Mara.” My heart stops beating altogether. It’s not Xylia.

  “This is Henry. My father says that since we’re having a snow day, I should try to get out and make some friends. I thought seeing you might be ideal since we’re already friends.”

  I’m silent. I want him to come over if Xylia can’t, but what if he comes, and then she calls?

  “Mara?” Henry’s voice sounds tinny and far away. “If it’s an inconvenience, I won’t come, of course.”

  How can I tell Henry he’s an inconvenience? “No, no,” I say. “Sorry. I just got distracted for a second. Why don’t you come over here?” I suspect I should recommend an activity, so I say what’s at the forefront of my mind. “We’ll build a snow fort.”

  Henry laughs. “A snow fort it is!”

  I set the phone in its cradle. “Oh, shit.” I plop my forehead on the table. Henry’s great and everything, but he’s no Xylia.

  When the phone rings again, I almost jump out of my skin. I answer.

  “A fucking snow fort? Are you kidding me? I’ve always wanted to make a snow fort!” Xylia doesn’t bother to say hello. “Should I bring anything? I mean, like, do you use nails or what? I have no fucking clue.”

  I smile so big, I think my face might break. I didn’t know she’d actually want to build a snow fort. “Just bring yourself, and maybe some warm clothes. No nails. All you need is snow. That’s why they call it a snow fort.”

  Xylia laughs. “We don’t build too many snow forts in San Francisco.”

  After we hang up, I run to my room and rip apart my drawers, trying to find the perfect outfit. Sexy without looking like I’m trying to be sexy. Hip but casual. What I settle on is a pair of faded jeans and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweatshirt, which doesn’t sound sexy at all, except it kinda hugs my curves and brings out the color of my eyes. I comb my hair and even put on a little lip gloss, which is new for me.

  Of course Henry shows up first. This seems to be the way the universe mocks me, making anyone but Xylia show up when I’m expecting her. Henry’s wearing a weird, striped scarf that was clearly knitted by hand. The brightly colored lines are all crooked and lumpy.

  “Cool scarf,” I say, needing to comment on it, but feeling like it might be rude to call it ugly.

  “Thanks,” he says. “My mother made it for my father before she died. He gave it to me.”

  So it’s true then. His momma did die. I don’t know how to respond. “Well, it’s awesome,” I say, thinking “awesome” is a generous word for a scarf that resembles unicorn vomit.

  “Thanks.” Henry pushes his glasses up with one finger. “Wanna start on the fort?”

  “Not until Xylia gets here,” I say too quickly.

  He looks crestfallen, as if he has figured out the fort building is all about Xylia, not him.

  “Maybe we could build a snowman while we wait,” I suggest.

  He perks right back up. “Would you believe that I have never built a snowman?”

  “No way,” I say.

  “Yes way,” he answers.

  “Momma,” I call, feeling like I’m twelve again, “we’re gonna build a snowman. Do you have any old clothes we can use?”

  “Look in the Goodwill boxes in my closet,” Momma calls back.

  We pound up the stairs, all excited. “We should make it look like someone,” I tell Henry.

  “Like who?” he asks as we step into Momma’s room.

  “I don’t know. Marilyn Monroe. Elvis. Someone.” I open Momma’s closet. “Let’s see what’s in here.” We rifle through the treasure trove, tossing faded dresses and ripped jeans aside. At the bottom of the box we find this ugly, striped suit jacket, which I’m sure Daddy has never worn, along with a faded red button-up shirt and a weird silk hat.

  Inspiration strikes us both at exactly the same time. Grinning, we say in unison, “Reverend Winchell!”

  In no time flat we’re almost knee deep in snow, rolling the orbs that will make up reverend Winchell’s body. We laugh as we stack them, and Henry tells me secrets. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m the first friend he’s ever had.

  “My name isn’t really Henry,” he tells me out of the blue.

  “What is it then?” I ask, thinking it will be some longer version of Henry, though I can’t think what that might be.

  “Charles,” he says.

  “Charles?” I ask, confused. “How’d they get Henry from Charles?”

  Henry shrugs. “My father started calling me that after my brother died.”

  I stare, still confused.

  “My brother’s name was Henry,” he explains. “Some days, I think my father really believes I am Henry, that he’s forgotten everything.” He pauses. “My brother died, drowned in a bathtub, when he was three years old. That was eleven years ago. Father keeps his obituary in a frame over the bathtub.”

  Poor Henry. “That’s gotta be depressing,” I say, thinking maybe my family isn’t so strange after all.

  “Not really,” says Henry. “I’m used to it. I read it sometimes, lying in the water, all of me submerged but my face. When I’m done reading, I let my arms and legs float, like a dead boy’s.”

  This is really getting macabre. I feel like I’m unwittingly starring in a horror film. I’m pretty sure Henry’s dead brother is going to possess the snowman and ax us to death or something. Seemingly unaware of my discomfort, Henry presses on. “He must have been tiny when he drowned, but he was still strong enough to take our whole world down with him.”

  When he says that, I forget about horror movies. I think about how my whole world went down too, on the day Daddy broke Iggy’s brain. I feel sad for Henry, who isn’t even really Henry. I put a mittened hand on his shoulder. “That’s gotta suck.”

  Henry takes off his glasses, which have gotten foggy, and cleans them on his scarf. He turns back to the snowman and keeps packing snow. “My mother left the year he died, though I can’t remember much of her, either. She’d say ‘yum, yum’ when she fed me with a spoon. I remember that much.”

  “I thought you said she died.”

  Henry looks confused for a second. “Well, I know she died. No one else does.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “Because I see it in my dreams,” Henry whispers. “In my dreams, I see things most people don’t see.”

  Whoa. So Henry is either crazy or psychic. Both are weird.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry says. “I shouldn’t have told you all that.”

  “No, no,” I say. “It’s cool. I mean, I’ve never known a psychic before, so it’s kind of scary, but it’s cool, too.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t think I’m psychic,” Henry says.

  “Xylia says you are.”

  “What do I say?” I turn, and Xylia has crept up behind us.

  I squeal and throw my arms around her. “Xylia! We were waiting to start the fort until you got here.”

  “We’re making a Reverend Winchell snowman,” Henry pipes in.

  “Oh my God. That is hilarious,” Xylia says, looking at the striped jacket sitting on the porch. “I can’t stand that guy.”

  Henry laughs. “Me either.”

  “I’d rather wipe my butt with sandpaper than listen to one of his sermons,” I say, and everyone laughs.

  So we give the Reverend Winchell snowman a face wearing an ugly pebble frown. We put Henry’s glasses on him, just for now, and we dress him up in the hideous shirt and suit jacket and hat. Then we get really industrious and build pews from snow. Xylia and I sit on them, and Henry goes behind the snowman and does his best Reverend Winchell imitation.

  “What is that godless heathen doing in our town?” he shouts. “It is an abomination for a man to have long hair.”

  “Fuck you!” Xylia shouts back. “Jesus had long hair!”

  “Yeah,” I say, jumping in, but feeling scared that someone will hear. “The Man himself had long hair. Was he an abomination?” Xylia grabs my hand, bolstering my confidence. “You go on and on about abominations,” I say, “but what about you? What about the way you go around hating and judging? That’s an abomination, if you ask me.”

  “That’s an abomination if you ask Jesus,” Xylia says. “Judge not, or you will be judged!”

  I look at her, surprised she can quote the Bible.

  She shrugs. “My daddy thinks Jesus’s teachings are cool. Not so much the religion that grew from them, but the teachings.”

  “Awesome,” I say.

  “Women burning for women!” Henry shouts in his Reverend Winchell voice.

  “Fuck you!” I yell, and I can’t believe I’m saying it, and I can believe even less what I do next.