by Ilie Ruby
Night after night, I escaped through my window, climbing down the vines, racing over the bike path, and climbing up the fire escape ladder to the roof, where I’d walk to the end, my toes curled over the edge, my belly undulating from the height. I imagined I’d push off and just fly. But I never did.
At home, I practiced jumping from my dresser to my bed, arms and legs flung out, landing in soft pillows. But fear held me back from doing the real thing. It was too far down. My bare feet would kick up moonlight across the waves, but only in my imagination, and I’d leave the roof, time and time again, invisible somehow, and defeated.
Somewhere around that time, my sisters took a hiatus. No longer able to communicate with them, my voice box quit working altogether. The air was too full of stories, and there was no room left for my wild imaginings. Not only did I have my own memories, but I had those of my mother and my grandmother to keep track of.
“Keep busy. Write down what’s bothering you. Write a letter. Anything,” my mother told me. She wanted me to know the power of having a tool in my hands. Though she said she didn’t have time for her own artwork anymore, it had helped her through a certain time in her life. Her paintings that had once hung throughout the house were reminders of that difficult time, and though she’d taken them down, she never forgot what they’d given her. She pushed a small spiral notepad toward my blue placemat at the kitchen table and pointed to the green magic marker, which she knew would entice me.
I shook my head no. When she narrowed her eyes, I grabbed the paper and wrote: “But I have no one to write to.” My father has no address is what I wanted to say, but she didn’t deserve to have her feelings hurt. I’d rather endure my own pain than cause hers.
“Write to me,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts, a ritual of hope. “I would love to have a letter from you. That would make me happy.”
My letter was addressed to The Most Beautiful Lady in the World. She taped it to her mirror above the bureau. Back then, I didn’t know why she wrote the wrong date on it—six years into the future. That would make me fifteen. She told me she was saving it for when I became a teenager, when I’d decide I no longer liked her—but I knew that would never happen. Everyone liked my mother. She was naturally likable and never cross, unlike me. Just one more thing I knew I must have in common with my father.
Whenever a thought felt trapped in my throat, I just tore off a scrap of paper and wrote my mother a note, an easy reprieve. Sometimes I left notes for her on her pillow, a replacement for words that had not been spoken. She always looked surprised, pleased, no matter what the note said. Even if I wrote that I hated my foot. As long as I was expressing myself, she’d be pleased. That led to my writing other notes, this time for other people.
That is how I became the Put-pocket.
THE PUT-POCKET WOULD slip notes into coat pockets, purses, and the bags of lost or downtrodden travelers. Throwing my hair back in a ponytail, I’d pull on my gray hooded sweatshirt over whatever I was wearing, a black sundress or a T-shirt and jeans, and I’d tip my straw hat forward and slip on my black boots with the big brass buckles that went up the side. This was my Put-pocket uniform. I carried the notebook and marker in my backpack wherever I went, leaving myself reminders about people I saw who needed a good word, who needed a second chance. It would be years before I’d learn that my grandmother did a similar thing by keeping track of her life in her almanacs. My grandmother didn’t scare me, nor did comparisons to her. There was no threat that I’d become somebody else. I was, in effect, too much myself. I was keeping track of other people’s lives, not mine. I was a rescuer, no longer a person who was just waiting for her father to come back.
I left notes for swimmers on their towels at the beach, for waitresses on empty plates in restaurants, for mothers on benches when they’d get up to push their young children in a swing; some notes were rolled up in cast-off high-tops left in the sand by beach walkers whenever someone raced into the water. Weaving through a crowd, I left them in people’s coat pockets, brushing by quickly, or slipped them into open grocery bags in parking lots while people returned their shopping carts to the racks. Put-pocketing required careful planning and people-watching, for only those who needed me most would receive a note. People were always telling you what they needed, in all sorts of languages that had nothing to do with words: in brushstrokes, in sideways glances, in long silences, and in myriad other ways.
The straightforward talkers, like my aunt, were usually the most feared. But most were like me and could forget what was good about them because everybody around them was telling them they were bad, at least at school. I was aware at the time that I needed somehow to do this, to make up for my own ineffectiveness at solving my problem with my bullies. But I knew this was important and would settle the score for others, balancing out the tipped scales of the universe, tipping people’s karma in favor of them, for every disrupted molecule had a ripple effect: If people in general were feeling too weighed down, the whole atmosphere would feel satiated, too full, and off-kilter, making you late for appointments, making machinery break down, making you lose things, becoming like a gray-yellow cloud that hovered over the place you lived, a smoglike consistency, like the kind that hung over the Los Angeles basin, not easily cleared, and occasionally moved and carried by the Santa Ana winds. Whenever we’d drive down the 405 toward Los Angeles, heading toward the San Gabriel Mountains, my eyes would burn from the smog, and I’d imagine all those good notes I’d have to write while we were there to try and help the people clear it up.
To the teenager I’d seen coughing at a bus stop and who, after she caught her breath, lit up a cigarette, I’d written a note that said her future children wanted her healthy enough to play with. I’d slipped it onto the bench when she got up to stretch her legs and tried to wave down the wrong bus. She returned to the bench to find it. I’d hidden behind a bush to watch her open it.
“Very funny,” she said, coughing. “Hello? Hellooo?” She got up and looked around. I felt like one of the Fairies, those ancient people who first inhabited the land where my father was from, who lived in underground mounds, inside trees, and between the caves and craggy cliffs of Orkney, and who left no written record of a language, mostly hidden creatures. When no one answered her, she looked around and glanced up for a moment. Then she shoved the note in her pocket. But when I came back a week later, she sat on the bench and didn’t smoke, instead holding a pencil between her fingers and taking long, unsatisfying drags on the lead.
At ten, I was at the height of put-pocketing power, for it would last only as long as I was still small enough, and whippet-fast, before I had my growth spurt. I’d follow people across the beach, ducking behind garbage cans, waiting behind trees, biding my time for the right opportunity. I had assumed a sort of military vigilance, perhaps to compensate for my mother’s free-flowing philosophy when it came to my behavior, and my aunt’s determined rebelliousness, which she’d encourage and then quash with a sudden maternal flash. I was smart enough to be careful, and naive enough not to worry about what would happen if I were caught. So far, I’d never been caught, not once, which I was proud of, but which I secretly began to worry would be impossible one day. Still, I was created perfectly for this. I could move through a crowd like a breeze in my gray sweatshirt with my hood pulled up over my chin, my gold ballet dress tufting out from under the sweatshirt, glimmering, like some sort of military ballet nymph, I imagined. During the day, I dressed in requisite pastel sundresses or polo shirts to try and fit in, and yet even in the appropriate costume I stuck out like a sore thumb and was still bullied, called the Frog Witch, asked if I was Aquaman’s wife and whether or not I could still guess people’s injuries and sicknesses, like I’d done for Julio that time on the beach when I told his mother his blood had rocks. By now, the story had changed, I’d hear later; it had morphed into a tall tale, urban folklore, that I had caused his blood to have rocks.
I’d already left notes for all the
residents of Wild Acres and all those orbiting-satellite types, like the mailman and the electrician, but no one ever said a word. Just yesterday, I’d discovered the ice cream man, Paulo, whom my mother remembered from when she was a girl. He’d been slumped under a tree in the park, barefoot. I’d called him “the hatter” in my notes, for people left money in his overturned baseball hat. He’d been there for a week, lying on his side, jacket twisted up under the arms, white T-shirt greased. His pants were rolled up to the knees, exposing the sores on his shins. His stench made your eyes water from all the way over on the sidewalk, a mixture of sweat, urine, and mouthwash. The first time I saw him lying there, I thought he was dead. I crept toward him and noticed with relief that his hand was twitching in the grass, and every once in a while his leg would kick, and I’d wondered where he was running to, what he was trying to catch—whether he’d lost something, perhaps his life—whether he had children, a wife, a runaway job, a second chance. These were the only things I could think of.
I decided he would need a fresh change of clothing, and so I asked my mother to take me to Goodwill, where she’d purchase for me trousers and two flannel shirts, for a supposed scarecrow we were making in art class on account of Halloween. I hated to lie to her, but this was a white lie, a lie meant for good, Aunt Dolly had taught me. The shirts would keep him warm. Excited, I folded them into my backpack, ready to leave them in the grass as soon as I saw him again. It occurred to me then how strange it was that I always seemed to think of the adults I met as not having any families or attachments, unlike any of the new children I met, who always appeared better situated. I’d left one note each day over the last week for Paulo as he slept. That night, I imagined him waking up and thinking he had a lucky angel. That he’d been chosen, and that feeling of being plucked by luck would cause him to turn over a new leaf. I knew I was beginning to break my own rule, that falling in too deep was not okay. This could bind me, inexplicably, to another soul in milliseconds. That was the bargain I’d made with myself: to remain sequestered. But I became so worried about him, I confessed it to my mother, who insisted we go back the next day to see about a shelter for him. That was how I’d spend my twelfth birthday.
Birthdays had special rituals and contained magical powers, especially if you’d stacked up the same wish several consecutive years. That could give your wish more power. Wishes made on birthdays went right to God and did not have to wait in line at the gate. They would get top priority in the snack line, and they were given special consideration if at all outlandish. In my opinion, my wish was something purposeful, not fanciful. It wasn’t like I was wishing for straight hair, or for an expensive toy. I didn’t care about new stuffed animals, for I’d had the same one since I was a child, a blue dog, and never needed another. Not a new bike or a computer game that lit up, which I wasn’t allowed to play anyway because it would make you fall in love with your television and fry your brains, my mother said. No, my wish was the same as it had been since I first discovered wishes. That wish had to do with my foot.
The morning of my birthday, a metal horse lifted its head out of the ocean, a machinelike version of the green waterhorse from years ago, but this one’s face was conical, its eyes shaped like rusted oily hexagons, his sheet-metal body riveted by iron nails, his fringed hooves scouring sand as he rose. I could see it from my bedroom window as I listened to the clatter of pans in the kitchen and the sound of my mother and my aunt’s voices as they cooked a traditional birthday breakfast. French toast with confectionary sugar and fresh strawberries. I worried about the old man under the tree, about moments that changed everything. I imagined my new foot.
People returned on birthdays, too. They’d say things like, “I’ve been thinking about you and it seemed a fine time to . . . . ” or, “How could I forget you today . . . . ” This is what I imagined my father saying when he came back for me. Surely he’d return on a day such as this, on a special occasion such as my birthday. Surely there were other changes and surprises in store for me. Just as I did on every birthday, before I lost all my nerve, I drew in a full breath, fully planning on yanking the blanket off my foot and expecting to see a change. I’d worn socks to bed the night before, a ritual to keep the surprise until the next morning. But I let go of the blanket, not wanting to be disappointed yet. Maybe this year would be different. Maybe this would be a year of no disappointments. My mother had said that however you spent the day of your birthday was how you’d spend your entire year, so you had to be careful. Maybe I’d never look at my foot all day. That way, I’d prevent my disappointment and the waves of sadness that came later.
When I saw the horse, I knew my father was not coming. There was something unsettling and stalled about his large, cabinetlike metal chest and his flared black eyes, something cold and unapproachable. Maybe it was a confirmation of extraordinary things. Perhaps my father had sent the horse in place of himself. When I looked back at the horse, there was only just rain out there, all steely skies and gray-silvery water, reflecting glinting hues, like fallen car parts, like tinfoil, like metal leg braces worn by one of the old residents, which I’d found in the storage room one day when I was playing.
Now, in my full-length mirror, I evaluated myself. I scanned my body for any other sign of change. Maybe my cheeks appeared too flushed, my eyelashes appearing blacker, thicker. Maybe my hair had grown an inch since yesterday, curling halfway down my back. Then I glanced down. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t keep a secret, not even from myself. My curiosity, like the elephant’s child in Rudyard Kipling’s story, was insatiable.
I pulled off the sock.
As if not disappointed, I leapt across the room, throwing my hands into the air. I jumped in a circle and threw open my curtains. Grabbing my supplies, I said that yes, this would be different anyway. Adding to this was that in the humidity I felt taller, my bangs curled up too high on the top of my head. I shoved my notepad and pen into my backpack. Was it wrong for a girl—just a girl—to imagine she could do something big in one day? That she could make this day the day that changed everything? Perhaps that was a quantum leap of faith, too big for me. I wondered as I ate a big breakfast and said twelve felt like eleven, only taller. I wondered if I would ever stop wishing for things, if one day I’d have all of my wishes come true and there would be nothing left to wish for. Then I’d be like a nun, only worrying about other people’s wishes and greasing the wheels for messages sent up to God. Or perhaps I would always wake up expecting to be different.
“Your grandmother would have loved seeing you so happy, Naida,” said Dr. B., joining us at the breakfast table as everyone clinked glasses of orange juice and toasted to my future, which I myself could not see. I hated how they all got ahead of me, bringing up things like college and my wedding, when I wasn’t even out of the gate yet. It made me worry that there were things waiting for me that should be worried about, and that this was the reason they had started so early. My mother believed in being prepared. She didn’t like uncertainty and didn’t like surprises. I ate hurriedly and assured my mother I’d be back for lunch, when we’d have my cake.
I slipped out of the door, intending to race to the boardwalk. Just then I heard my mother. “Hold on. Wait for us—don’t you remember we said we wanted to come with you? For Paulo,” she said, as my aunt pulled on her jacket. “My old ice cream man, the one you told us about,” my mother said, out of breath. “We’re going to find him.”
“He’s gone,” I said flatly.
“Did you see him?”
“No, but I just don’t think he’s still there,” I told them.
My aunt glanced at my mother, telling her she thought we should try anyway.
As we walked together down the bike path toward Maiden’s Cross Village, I took out my notebook and thumbed through the pages. My records were labeled “man with broken tooth,” “woman with red sandals,” “smart boy from candy store.” In time, I’d have stacks of these notebooks under my bed, heaps of paper, hidden words.
Now, as we approached the park next to the boardwalk, I saw the shadow of Paulo’s body in the downed blades of grass, but no Paulo. I imagined hidden chambers existed underneath this tree, where a soul could curl up, waiting to climb out on a shaft of light. The shape of absence reminded me of my father. I put my hand on the tree trunk, imagining what it could tell me, all it had seen, and whether it had conspired with the moon last night to disappear Paulo, and my father.
“This is where he was,” I said. “Right here. See the grass?” I pointed to the bare patch. “His hat. It was right there.”
My mother and aunt walked back home while I stayed to continue my plan. I watched people waltz back and forth across the boardwalk, excitement and worry rising like steam above their heads, trying to see who needed a good word. A runaway boy begged for change. A mother complained that her feet were killing her as she pushed a stroller. As I scanned the crowd, I saw someone familiar. Mr. Taki’s back was to me. When he faced me, there was no recognition in his eyes. Then he escaped into the alley behind the restaurant. I tried to follow him, but he disappeared. I hoped he would go home now.
I wrote five notes in an hour. I slipped each note into pockets, purses, and bags. “What do you think you’re doing, young lady?” A blond woman in a red suit needed to be reminded of her wisdom. She’d just forgotten all she knew. She gripped my arm, staring at me with pressed lips painted bright red. I could see the layer of powder on her face, and one false eyelash flicked over the rest. She waved the note I’d left in her pocket. “Thief,” she hissed.
“I didn’t take anything. It’s just a friendly note. It’s my birthday.”