Watch How We Walk

by Jennifer LoveGrove

  — Yeah, well, they’re not interested, okay? And Viv, relax about my hair. It’s just stupid gossip.

  — I know. But stupid gossip is dangerous. Just cut your hair to appease them. Trust me, it’ll make life easier.

  — Fine. I’ll do it this weekend.

  — Fine.

  They get up and start the dishes and Emily goes upstairs to change into her Hall outfit. She’s disappointed her uncle didn’t mention his back calls, and she can’t understand why people don’t help themselves better when they’re getting in trouble. He and Lenora just make it worse. It would be so easy for them to just get along and do things right, but they don’t. It’s like they want to get in trouble.

  She stares into her closet. She has no idea what to wear. Emily doesn’t care very much about clothes, or hair for that matter, not like Lenora, who plans out her outfits and alters her tops and skirts to fit her better, or to look cooler, by adding extra zippers or rows of black velvet ribbon. I use clothing to express my individuality, Lenora explains, but Emily doesn’t really understand. Who cares? She doesn’t want anyone to look at her anyway.

  As usual, her sister’s door is closed, but Emily knocks.

  — It’s me. Can you help me get ready? I don’t know what to wear.

  Lenora rarely passes up an opportunity to dress her sister, and Emily hopes this time will be no different.

  There is no answer to her knock. The water goes on in the bathroom and Emily sighs — one of her sister’s epic showers. She goes into Lenora’s bedroom anyway and closes the door softly behind her. Maybe she can get some ideas from her sister’s closet.

  It’s a mess, with piles of dirty clothes on the floor of the closet, shirts and pants and dresses falling from hangers, reminding Emily of slabs of meat dangling from hooks in the window of the butcher shop. She winces and wishes she hadn’t thought of that. There are black t-shirts, jeans, kilts, and second-hand cardigans all jumbled together. Not like her own closet, which is neatly organized — shirts first, then sweaters, dresses, pants, skirts, and everything that is the same colour together. It’s easier to find things that way. She sees nothing she wants to borrow and everything would be way too big on her anyway. The shower still hums and sputters in the bathroom.

  She glances around her sister’s dark and messy room and wrinkles her nose. It smells like her vanilla perfume, candle wax, and unwashed laundry; she should open a window once in a while. School books are scattered on the floor, makeup is strewn across the vanity, and bottles of nail polish glint chaotically across her desk. Her bed, unlike Emily’s, is rumpled and unmade, and her outfit for the night’s meeting is strewn across the blankets. There is a black skirt and a red turtleneck sweater, a pair of black tights and a matching black bra and underwear set, ready to put on when she comes back from the bathroom.

  Emily can’t imagine what it must be like to wear a bra. Her own chest is flat, and shows no signs of changing, which is just fine with her. She turns sideways in the mirror and runs her hands over her chest; so far so good. But she can’t stop looking at Lenora’s bra — it’s a grown-up thing, complicated with hooks and lace, beautiful and dangerous. She can’t believe their mother let Lenora get a bra like that, so ornate and decadent, and — as the elders would call it — immodest. She’s seen her mother’s bras in the laundry before, plain and floppy and white or beige and sometimes pink but never this fancy. It’s an exquisite three-dimensional sculpture. Emily picks it ups and runs her fingertips along the lace trim on the cups and straps. Something flutters in her stomach, papery wings, fear, envy, almost pleasure, and her pulse leaps to keep up. She holds it across her outstretched palms like a treasure, or an injured bird, and listens again at the door. The water still runs, and her mom and Uncle Tyler chat and laugh downstairs. She has time.

  As fast as she can, she pulls off her blue sweater and tosses it onto the end of Lenora’s bed. She slides her arms under the bra straps and pulls it to her chest. Reaching behind her, she tries to fasten the hooks but can’t quite reach. There are two of them, and all she has to do is hook them together, but she can’t see what she’s doing, and it’s too frustrating. How does Lenora do this every day? It must take a lot of extra time. No wonder Lenora is always late for the meetings and for school.

  Her arm starts to tense and cramp up from the awkward angle and she gives up. She’ll just pretend it’s done up properly, and leaves the back open between her shoulder blades. Taking a deep breath, she turns to face the mirror. Her eyes widen, and her stomach aches but in way that feels good, and without meaning to, she squeezes her legs together, which also feels good. She looks funny, like she’s playing dress-up, which she is, but it’s exciting. At the same time, her face starts to go red, because she suspects she’s doing something quite wrong. Before reaching for her sweater, she takes one more long look. When she is old enough, she is going to get a fancy bra just like this.

  — Oh my God! You pervert!

  Lenora, wrapped in her thick yellow bathrobe, stands in her doorway and shrieks. One hand is over her mouth and other is on her hip. Emily turns purple, she feels sick, she cannot look at herself or anywhere. She flings the bra to the ground like a poisonous snake and grabs her sweater all in the same motion.

  — What’s going on up there? their mother yells from the bottom of the stairs.

  — Nothing! they shout back in unison, and Lenora slams the door and, feet wide apart, arms folded across her chest, she stands in front of it.

  — What were you doing?

  Emily, fully clothed again, stares at her sister’s red and black flecked carpet and says nothing. She can hear Lenora smirk without looking.

  — Answer me. Why were you trying on my bra? Are you some kind of kinky weirdo?

  — No!

  — Well, why then? Do I have to get Mom up here? Or Dad?

  — No! Emily tries to push past her and run away but Lenora shoves her back onto the bed.

  — Did you like it?

  — Like what?

  — Wearing my sexy bra?

  — Gross!

  — Liar.

  — Let me go!

  Emily’s throat snaps shut with a dull ache. She doesn’t want to cry in front of her sister; she fights and fights and closes her eyes and turns her head but it’s too late.

  — I’m sorry. Let me go.

  — Not so fast. First, put it back where you found it.

  The room is blurry through her tears and too hot and it smells and she wants out so badly but knows that’s impossible now, and it’s all her own stupid, stupid fault.

  She doesn’t look at the bra, but picks it up by its strap with two fingers and holds it as far from her body as possible and drops it onto the bed.

  — Second, I won’t tell on you if you keep a secret for me. Oh, and I hope it goes without saying that you will not ever even mention the very existence of that bra to Mom or Dad, right?

  Emily nods so hard she thinks her head might launch from her neck and bounce against the far wall.

  — Good. Now go get changed for the Hall and then I’ll tell you some stuff. Now that I know you can never, ever tell on me about anything!

  Emily can still hear her laughing as she closes her own bedroom door. She throws herself onto her bed and cries. What was she thinking? Of all the ridiculous, embarrassing things in the world to do, she had to do that. She wishes so hard that she could take it back and erase it from reality forever.

  — Hurry up!

  She can’t feel sorry for herself for long though, they’ll be leaving for the meeting soon, and Lenora is calling her. She quickly opts for her beige corduroy skirt and leaves on the same blue sweater, tugs on some tights and heads back to Lenora’s room.

  — So guess what.

  Emily shrugs and still can’t meet Lenora’s eyes.

  — What?

  — Uncle
Tyler’s in big trouble.

  — What are you talking about?

  — I know things.

  — You do not. He’s not in trouble. He just has to get his hair cut.

  Lenora laughs again. Emily wishes she didn’t always make Lenora laugh without meaning to.

  — What’s so funny?

  — You. You’re so naïve.

  — What’s ‘naïve’ mean?

  — Stupid.

  Emily tries to ignore her. Not because of the insults, but because she doesn’t want to hear any more about Uncle Tyler, or Lenora’s secrets. They don’t make her feel special or privileged like a secret should; they just make her feel nervous and nauseated and like she’s done something very wrong herself.

  But Lenora isn’t finished.

  — His hair is the least of his worries.

  Emily’s eye is itchy. She tries to resist, but the burning twinge is insistent. She rubs her eye, but that’s not enough. She rubs it again, then plucks out a bottom eyelash. It stings, but in a good way. Then she pulls out another, and that feels so good that she plucks out another, and another and another. Four, five, six, seven. She counts eleven eyelashes before Lenora yells at her.

  — Stop it! That’s disgusting! You already have a big bald patch under your other eye. You look like a freak.

  Emily sits on her hands on the bed near Lenora. Lenora stands up and twirls around the room, doing a fake dance to no music. Emily wonders if she’s wearing the special bra under her turtleneck. She hopes not, and doesn’t look anywhere but at her face or the floor. Lenora sways her hips and waves her arms.

  — I know someone who saw him somewhere he shouldn’t have been.

  She dances back and forth across the room. Emily says nothing and doesn’t move. If she doesn’t know, then none of it can be true.

  Finally, Lenora sits back down beside her.

  — All right, I’ll tell you.

  — Tell me what?

  — Why Uncle Tyler’s going to get in big trouble.

  — He’s not! He’s going to cut his hair, he promised.

  — I already told you, it’s not about his hair. That’s just an excuse.

  — It is not! Stop it!

  Lenora stands up again, looking down at Emily, who still sits on her hands. She tries hard not to move. If she stays as still as she can, everything will stay the same, and no one will get in trouble. Not Uncle Tyler, not Lenora, not her. Nothing will change. She closes her eyes.

  — He was seen in a nightclub. Drunk. In Buffalo.

  Emily opens her eyes.

  — He was not! You’re making it up!

  — I’m not. I swear to God. Think I should tell the elders? Lenora smirks.

  Emily runs to the bedroom door and looks into the hallway before closing it tightly.

  — Be quiet! What if they hear you?

  — I have another secret.

  — So what?

  — Don’t you want to hear it?

  — No.

  — This is a good one, Ems.

  — No. Just shut up! I don’t want to know anything else.

  — I’m in love.

  Emily makes a gagging noise and pretends to throw up in a pillow.

  — With who? With Theo?

  — None of your business. But it’s the real thing. And someday we’re going to get out of this town. Escape. Together.

  Emily’s never heard her sister talk like this before and it frightens her. Where is she going to escape to? Without noticing, she plucks out a few more eyelashes.

  Lenora pauses when they hear footsteps on the stairs, and then leans in toward Emily’s face. Emily closes her eyes again and wishes she could go temporarily deaf, so she doesn’t have to hear any more secrets.

  — Listen to me.

  — No.

  Emily lunges toward the door but Lenora grabs her arm and pulls her toward her face.

  — Do you know what ‘in drag’ means?

  There is a loud knock at the door and they both jump.

  — Girls! Your mom says you have five minutes before we have to leave.

  Emily and Lenora look at each other. Lenora responds in a silly high voice.

  — Okay, we’ll be right there, Uncle Tyler!

  22

  AGNES THE PENTECOSTAL IS COMING over. Emily didn’t tell her parents that Agnes is a Pentecostal, but that’s not the same as lying, not exactly. She can’t tell her parents every little thing that happens to her or every thought that comes into her head. Besides, Agnes isn’t like other worldly kids; she doesn’t swear or cheat on tests or steal candy from the corner store. She just reads and talks about Sunday school and mystery books. They’ve done lots of shifts together at the library and she is the closest thing to a worldly friend that Emily has — or any kind of friend, for that matter. She told her parents that she’s been Witnessing to Agnes at school, that she might want to come to a meeting with her someday, and they agreed to let her come over to play. It was sort of true, since Agnes has been asking her questions about Jehovah’s Witnesses, like why don’t they celebrate Christmas or birthdays, and whether or not Emily has to knock on doors and preach to strangers. She answers as best she can, then changes the subject to Trixie Belden mystery books, which they both read, or how Mr. MacKay the librarian smells.

  Emily checks that her shirt is tucked in, that her hair is combed, and then picks at one of the scabs on her index finger. Agnes has never seen her bedroom or met her parents before. She hopes that she doesn’t find them weird and tell everyone at school that they’re freaks, just because they pray before they eat and don’t have a Christmas tree. Emily reassures herself that they can’t be any stranger than the Pentecostals. It’s the first time Emily’s parents have ever allowed her to have a worldly friend over, other than the next-door neighbour kids, the Pattons, who used to just come over whenever they felt like it, because their mom worked all the time and their dad had run off.

  Her mom is making homemade macaroni and cheese for them for dinner and Emily hopes that Agnes likes it. Emily walks back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, where her father sits on the couch in jeans and a plaid shirt, reading the latest issue of the Watchtower that was in yesterday’s mail. She stops to look out the window and see if Agnes is there yet. Her mom is dropping her off at 4:00 and will pick her up at 7:30.

  — Stop pacing, Emily. You’re making me nervous. Her mom grates cheese on top of the casserole and slides it into the oven.

  — She’ll get here when she gets here.

  — I know. Where’s Lenora? Emily hopes her sister doesn’t say anything strange or mean to Agnes. Hopefully she’ll have a lot of homework to do and will leave them alone.

  — In her room, as usual. Being anti-social.

  Emily isn’t sure what she should do with Agnes when she finally arrives — will she want to play a game, like checkers or Snakes and Ladders, or will she prefer to dress up her dolls in different outfits, or maybe go outside and swing on the tire swing? What if she thinks Emily’s toys and games are boring? What if she doesn’t have fun and never comes back? What if Emily never has a proper best friend? Gravel crunches in the driveway and she watches a grey sedan pull up to the house. Agnes climbs out of the car and blows her mom a kiss goodbye. Her mom honks the horn and waves. Agnes is wearing a white blouse tucked into a green and orange tartan skirt with white tights. She looks like she could be on her way to the Kingdom Hall. Emily thinks it would be nice to have a friend her own age there to sit with during the meetings sometimes, instead of just her family. She jumps when the doorbell rings, and stands there, then looks at her mother.

  — Well, answer the door, Emily! Her mom sounds exasperated.

  Agnes stands on the porch and pushes her glasses up her nose. She smiles and adjusts her backpack.

  — Hi.
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  — Hi Emily. Agnes stands on her tiptoes and looks past her and into the house. Emily wavers in the doorway.

  — Aren’t you going to ask me in?

  Emily reddens and stammers.

  — Of course . . . come on in.

  Agnes takes off her boots and sets her bag down. She clasps her arms together.

  — Thank you for having me over.

  — You’re welcome.

  — Hi Mr. Morrow.

  Emily’s dad smiles and waves from the couch then looks back down at the magazine on his lap.

  — My mom says I should thank your mom too.

  — Okay.

  Emily hopes her mom doesn’t say or do anything embarrassing. Agnes follows close behind her into the kitchen.

  — Mom, this is Agnes.

  Emily’s mom sets her mug down next to the stove and shakes Agnes the Pentecostal’s hand up and down, hard, for far too long.

  — Hi Agnes! Welcome to our happy home! How are you on this fine day?

  Emily cringes.

  — Mom . . .

  — Fine thank you, Mrs. Morrow. Thank you for having me over.

  — Oh, you’re most welcome.

  — Do you need any help with dinner?

  — No, no, you kids go play. We’re going to eat in about an hour.

  Emily gives Agnes a quick tour of their house and then they go to her bedroom. Agnes perches right at the edge of the bed, as though sitting farther back toward the pillows would be unsavoury. She folds her hands in her lap. Emily isn’t sure what she is supposed to do next, and Agnes is quieter than she is at school.

  — Do you want to play checkers?

  — Okay.

  Emily sets out the board and arranges the pieces. They click and clack like her father’s knuckles when he cracks them. Agnes moves her red piece forward. Emily considers her first move and slides a black disc forward. Agnes hops her red piece over it and captures Emily’s black one. Emily frowns. Agnes leans forward over the checkerboard.

  — Can I ask you a question?

  — I don’t know. I guess so.