I did find six bottles
of medicine with Mama’s
name on them, full
of little white pills.
Me and Charlie have done
our worksheets in pen
the last five days, and no one
has noticed. Mama never
looks at them anymore.
TRY
The school year is over now,
but Charlie says
we have to keep working.
I start feeling a little crazy
when I can’t draw.
I feel the pictures
stacking up inside,
and they do funny things.
When I look at
the magnolia out front,
I see it in black and white,
like it’s a pencil drawing
and not a tree.
I guess Charlie told
Aunt Bee about no pencils.
Aunt Bee walks in today
with two big bags
of art supplies.
Regular pencils, and graphite
and charcoal ones, too.
My lips smile wide,
like they are swallowing
my face.
She empties the other bag
and lines the table with
bright and dark colors.
Charlie picks up a red tube.
Paulie doesn’t paint, she says.
Has he ever tried? Aunt Bee says.
I shake my head.
Well, why don’t you try? she says.
She slides all the tubes
back in the bag and
starts toward the door.
She carries all those paints out back,
behind the house and the dead garden
and almost to the edge of the woods,
where my daddy’s shed sits,
shining silver in the light.
READY
I haven’t been in the shed
since my daddy left.
Aunt Bee stands at the door,
like she’s asking
my permission to go in.
The light’s on the left, I say.
Charlie grabs my hand.
She clears her throat. Ready?
I’m not. But I
follow her anyhow.
SHED
My daddy’s shed is musty,
like rain has gotten in,
but it’s neat.
Aunt Bee stands looking
at the walls, where Daddy
framed the sheets of his
favorite songs and tacked
posters of John Lennon
and Jimi Hendrix and
Bob Dylan.
No windows, Aunt Bee says.
Her voice is high,
like something is caught
in her throat.
She walks to a shelf
in one of the corners
and holds up
the light my daddy used
when he was building the shed,
so he could find the gaps
and seal them.
This might do
for a time, she says.
She plugs the light
into one of the outlets,
and the corner floods with light.
Aunt Bee sets the light
on the ground and then
takes a box from the bag.
It’s an easel, and when
she’s done setting it up,
she hangs a canvas from it,
then hands me the rest of the bag
and an apron.
Whenever you’re ready, she says.
I am lost in the
smells of my daddy,
the dirt of the floor,
the wood of the walls,
the airy gaps of those places
we never got to finish.
I stand there for a long, long time,
breathing and seeing and feeling,
and when I look around next,
Aunt Bee and Charlie are gone,
and I am alone in this place
my daddy loved.
ART
Mama always said that
my daddy made masterpieces
for other people
but didn’t have any masterpieces
left for us.
I used to watch him,
bending over cedar,
carving art into dressers
and chairs and tables.
I pick up a brush, and I don’t
know what I’m doing or
how to even mix colors,
but I paint. And when
I’m finished, minutes or
maybe hours later,
I step back from the canvas.
I can’t say what the
picture holds, except color.
Red and orange,
green and blue.
It doesn’t look like
the death I expected.
It looks like a sunrise,
a brand-new life.
DARK
Dark falls like a curtain,
fast, thick, and unexpected.
I’m still in the woods
with Milo.
The one time I forgot
to get home before dark,
Mama was waiting in her
rocking chair on the porch.
She was so mad
she was crying.
The trees don’t let much light in here,
even in the daytime.
The woods get real dark
once the sun goes down.
But Milo knows the way,
even if I didn’t.
Which I do.
We race through the trees,
Milo keeping close beside me.
He stops every time
I trip on roots,
three times in all.
HAND
When I burst out of the trees,
a flaming sky burns my eyes shut.
I open them and stare at the cloud
that looks like a hand
holding a cigarette blowing smoke
up into the last of the day’s glow.
My daddy’s hand, holding up the sun
so there’s just enough light
for me to find my way home.
I smile.
Then I look at the porch.
It’s not Mama sitting
in the chair, swaying.
It’s Aunt Bee.
My feet touch the stairs
before she says, Your mama
told you to be home before dark.
Her voice is soft,
but her eyes flash lightning
in the porch light.
Mama’s not here, I say,
and it’s the first time
I’ve ever said anything
like that to Aunt Bee,
being as my daddy
taught me better.
It’s just that my insides
feel like a wild hurricane.
LOCK
Aunt Bee gets up
and walks to me.
She leans close,
smelling like peppermint.
Doesn’t mean the rules
don’t apply, Paulie, she says.
A boy could get lost
in those dark woods.
She wouldn’t care, I say.
Aunt Bee’s eyes narrow
and she steps back
and folds her arms
like she does when
she’s real mad.
You better believe
she would, Paulie, she says.
Your mama loves you.
You think it’s easy for her,
now that your daddy’s gone?
I shake my head, but my
insides shake even harder,
since Aunt Bee is
chewing her lip.
She chewed her lip
when she told Mama
everyth
ing would be all right
the day my daddy
thumped into the ground.
She chewed her lip
when she told Gran
she’d talk to my mama
about our empty pantry
and then she filled it
herself instead.
She chewed her lip
when she told Charlie
my daddy wasn’t a drunk
who chased women, like
my mama screamed down
our hall one night when she
came home tripping over chairs.
That’s how come I know.
So I turn away from Aunt Bee
chewing her lip, and I walk down
the same hall where my mama
screamed those words,
and I slam the door behind me.
Hard, hard, hard, like I feel.
And then I lock it tight
so no one, lying or truth-telling,
can get in.
BREAKFAST
Mama stops by my
room this morning.
I would have kept the door
locked all night if Charlie
hadn’t banged on it,
shouting that she
needed to sleep, too.
I feel Mama there for a long time,
standing over me, watching.
She bends close and kisses my cheek.
I pretend I’m asleep,
but I guess she can tell.
I know you’re awake, Paulie, she says.
She waits, and I open my eyes.
Hers are dark and deep.
Want to have breakfast with me?
EMPTY
Me and Charlie usually
have breakfast over at Gran’s now,
on account of our empty pantry
and even emptier icebox.
The other day, Charlie took
Gran’s recipe for biscuits
from the book that sits
on Gran’s cabinet corner
and tried to make some for us,
but when we opened the flour
from our pantry, it moved.
Charlie screamed and made me
take it out back and dump it.
I didn’t tell her, but I gagged
watching that flour crawl
when I shook it out on our grass.
CUP
I follow Mama to the kitchen.
She opens the icebox and
stares at the only thing inside:
a bottle she must have
brought home last night,
since it wasn’t there
when I checked yesterday.
Not much to eat, she says
and shuts the door.
She walks into the pantry
and comes back out
with nothing.
Her eyes turn watery
when she looks at me.
I’ll call Gran, she says.
She probably has
something cooking.
It’s okay, I say.
I’ll walk over when
Charlie gets up.
She nods and turns
toward the cabinet
that hides our cups.
When she opens it,
I see my daddy’s cup
way in the back,
behind two others.
No one ever drinks from that one.
She takes out two, careful
not to touch my daddy’s,
and fills them with sink water.
Then she carries them
to the table and sets one
in front of me.
MAMA
When she’s standing or sitting
or sleeping, it’s hard to tell
how Mama is vanishing.
But when she’s walking,
when her stick-legs start moving,
I see the bones knocking
against clothes that sag
and bunch.
I’m not doing too well
since your daddy . . . she says,
but I guess she can’t
say all the words.
She stares at her fingers,
spread out on the table
in front of us.
Her nails are
black and dirty.
It’s all right, I say again,
even though it’s not.
She plays with an
imaginary line on the table.
I watch her hands
with scratches and spots
I don’t remember.
I’m sorry, she says,
and this time she
looks right at me.
For a minute, I look back.
Her eyes wrap around me.
Mama is supposed to know
the right way from here,
what to do and how to live
without my daddy,
but she looks at me
like maybe I’m the one
with all the answers.
I look away, and Mama
squeezes my hand,
like she’s saying
she understands.
I love you, Paulie, she says.
SUMMER
Bee wants to take you and Charlotte
this summer, Mama says.
There’s something I gotta do.
She looks at me,
like she’s trying to make me
understand, but I don’t.
She’s leaving us, too, then.
The hole in my chest widens.
I can’t say a word.
Mama’s quiet for a minute,
and then she says, I’ll sure
miss you both. But Bee’s
a good woman. Always was.
The silence moves around us,
like that flour in its bag.
She’ll take good care
of you.
She stands and crosses the floor
to dump what’s left of her water
back in the sink, and then she
stoops to kiss my hair.
I have to go to work, Paulie, she says.
I enjoyed breakfast.
I reckon she forgot
we didn’t eat anything.
She’s gone before I can say
I love her, too.
So I chase her out the door
and yell it into the morning.
She smiles and
climbs in Gran’s car.
She drives off
without looking back,
even though I’m waving
from the porch.
And I’m a little bit glad,
since now she won’t see me cry.
SUPPER
I spend all day
walking the fields,
trying to find just
the right flowers
for our table.
It’s our last night at home,
and Charlie cooked Mama’s
favorite supper.
Gran’s car pops into the drive,
and I yell to Charlie,
loud as I can, She’s here!
and race through the door
and into the kitchen,
where I see the rest of my flowers
sitting in the middle of the table,
arranged in a way that
makes them look like more
than the wildflowers they are.
Charlie hands me a plate,
piled high with steaming
hot chicken potpie
I didn’t even know
she could make.
Green beans and corn
and carrots spill out
the sides in a soupy sauce
I can’t wait to taste.
CLOUD
The screen door slams,
and by the time Mama
moves into the room,
me and Charlie are
waiting for her.
I�
��m trying not to notice
how good the food smells,
trying to wait for everyone
to sit down before I put
a single bite in my mouth.
Hurry, hurry, hurry,
my stomach says.
Charlie waves at the plate
in front of an empty seat.
I cooked, she says.
Her face glows bright.
Mama’s smile shakes.
She stares at the plate we’ve
set for her, and she hesitates.
Me and Charlie notice,
and the air around the table
turns thick and dark,
like a rain cloud followed
Mama in.
Then Mama sits.
Thank you, hon, she says.
We eat in silence,
both of us watching Mama
picking at her food.
Every now and then
she puts a carrot
in her mouth,
but nothing else.
I look at Charlie.
Her eyes are
wet storms.
TIRED
I want to tell Mama
it’s our last night,
that I picked all these
flowers for her,
that Charlie spent
a whole hour cooking
this meal. But the only thing
that comes out is
I love you, Mama.
Mama looks at me for a minute,
and then she smiles on her face
but not in her eyes.
I love you, too, she says.
She puts down her fork.
I know it’s your last night home.
She lifts one shoulder,
like she’s not sure she
should say more. But she does.
It’s just that I’m tired.
And then she’s standing,
pushing in her chair.
It scrapes the floor like
her words scrape us.
I stare at her face, at those
dark eyes that look emptier
than I’ve ever seen them,
even on the morning
after my daddy left.
Thank you for dinner, she says,
turning so she can walk
all the way down the hall
and into her room,
where she’ll spend the rest
of this last night home
locked away from us.
MISS
Charlie glances at the Monopoly box
she set on the counter
right before supper and then
looks down at her plate,
almost empty. I wonder
if she feels as sick as I do.
She stands and carries her plate
and Mama’s still-full one
to the sink.
I follow her with mine. I’m about to
turn toward our room when Charlie
The Colors of the Rain Page 4