by Rachel Simon
At last, even the tiny crystals melt.
Miss Lela brings Alvina a bracelet, a string of pink and white beads only big enough for a doll, or a baby. “Why don’t you have this?” she says. “My little girl can’t use it no more.”
“I never seen a little girl here.”
“She ain’t around no more.”
Alvina puts on her coat. They walk next door, around the front way. They ring the bell. Miss Lela clutches Alvina’s hand. They wait for the weatherworn door to swing open.
“I’ve been watching you,” Miss Lela says, peering down at Alvina. “You need to be more careful.”
“Will you take care of me again? Like if I fall, will you help?”
“You best be careful you don’t.”
“I can’t help it if I do.”
Miss Lela sighs. Footsteps come up to the other side of the door. “Maybe I’ll help you,” she says. “But don’t be expecting too much of me.”
“I won’t,” Alvina says. “And I’ll do something nice for you in return.”
“Like what? I don’t need nothing.”
“I don’t know right now,” Alvina says, looking up at Miss Lela’s face. “Give me time. Let me think.”
Afterglow
When madeline first came here from her aunt’s house, her pop asked her politely to help out with the cleaning, but this had changed lately. Now she couldn’t be bothered with cleaning. A thirteen-year-old could at least make her own bed, was what her stepmother, Hilda Gail, was probably thinking. But Madeline couldn’t see taking the time to pull the bedspread taut and neat, the hem equally far from the floor all around. Or wash the dishes or set the storm window into the back door. It was tough getting her point across at first: Madeline sitting knees to chin in a chair, reading, her pop stepping around to the front, saying, I would very much like it if you swept the kitchen floor this week. Maybe, Madeline would say, hitching her book in closer. He would slink away, taking Hilda Gail’s elbow, saying, I think I got through. Which made it hard to walk past Hilda Gail to get a snack, with her grading papers at the kitchen table, right next to the broom and all.
But ever since two weeks ago when Madeline hit on this idea of telling them that she had a bun in the oven, everything had become a whole lot easier. Kick the blankets off the bed and leave them in a heap. Hang the dresses on the bedpost and wear them till they keep her shape. Pop didn’t care. Hilda Gail didn’t seem to either. Pop asking all the time, You all right, Madeline? You feeling OK? No, Madeline would say, and then flop on the sofa or truck into the bathroom. Used to be, Pop and Hilda Gail got the monopoly in the john every morning. Not anymore. Now it was Madeline — running the bath while the water was still hot, soaking it up, checking out Harlequin romances even when someone knocked on the door and asked if please, could they get a few minutes before they had to leave for work. Oh, I feel so lousy, Madeline would say, and they’d walk off and leave her alone. She’d keep reading till she got to a chapter end. Lush gardens and kisses in the rain, men whose gentility belied their real passion, and all the while Madeline sighing at the thought of having a beau of her own someday.
Pop bought her bath crystals yesterday. Keep that skin soft, he said. Hilda Gail — God rest her soul — told him to do it. Madeline had her ear to the wall, so she heard everything. Evan, Hilda Gail said, we’re only a few months into this parenting business, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about as a schoolteacher it’s pregnant girls. You have to be kind and treat them well. Look at what’s just happened to their lives.
All I know, Pop said back to her, is that my little baby has got herself in trouble, and that the fellow responsible has not called here once. I don’t even know who he is.
Let her tell us when she’s ready, Hilda Gail said. It was probably hard enough for her to tell us about the child. The girl’s got too much to deal with right now, just settling into living here, let alone having to explain all kinds of embarrassing things.
Then what should I do? Pop asked.
Have sympathy, Hilda Gail answered.
So Pop bought Madeline the bath crystals. And he got her tapes of oceans rolling in and out, and a carton of canned bread, which Madeline loved but Hilda Gail thought was a defilement of food, only she got generous and let Madeline have it because, Now’s the time to be nice to her, you know. And Pop got lavender potpourri for her room, and a pillowcase of slippery material — ice green, the color of mint chocolate chip, which he was also stocking now. Plus Pop said the days Madeline was too sick in the morning, she coud bag school if she wanted. And you can bet that she was sick every morning, this one being no exception.
Now Madeline was downstairs, surveying the living room mess. Pop had asked her to try cleaning when the morning sickness passed, but of course she wouldn’t. Instead, she’d been cutting the handsomest men out of magazines and sticking them in her private folders so she could have somebody new to gaze at before she went to bed. Slick magazine pages lay scattered across the folding table between the kitchen and living room. And everywhere, the usual: dishes, junk mail, soiled clothes, dust.
Madeline snapped on the TV in the living room and the one in the kitchen and turned them to different shows. She liked spending her mornings that way. Lots of times you could get a rhythm going — the folks on one show talking low when the ones on the other were shouting. Back and forth.
She was scooping out some mint chocolate chip when the doorbell rang. Though she couldn’t see the front door from where she sat, she knew it was her neighbor Mrs. Lubbock, come to give her some flack but from the civilized entrance instead of the back door, the old busybody so dearly loved to use. Every day Mrs. Lubbock eyed her when Madeline looked back to check out the Pennsylvania Railroad passing by, with its rusted cars of ore and coal, its good-looking engineers waving to her out the window, and in the two weeks since the maternity dresses had become Madeline’s daily attire there came from Mrs. Lubbock a harangue Madeline now knew by heart — You should stop lying about your condition, you are taking advantage of a loving father. Madeline listened a couple of times; if there was one thing she had learned in her life, it was that it always pays to know your enemies. The fence between the trains and the row-house yards had blown down in a winter storm a few days ago, which would explain Mrs. Lubbock’s coming around to the front today. Of course, Madeline had heard enough of Mrs. Lubbock by now, so she just kept scooping the ice cream while the bell donged to kingdom come. She set herself up at the folding table, where she could see both TVs, and listened to Mrs. Lubbock shuffling around on the front steps, waiting, until finally the feet went away and Madeline was left alone with her scissors and TV and things were as they should be.
Couldn’t have been five minutes later, there was a scraping sound at the back door. Squirrels ran near there sometimes and the washing machine made strange noises occasionally, so Madeline didn’t pay it any attention. But the sound kept up, like something nibbling, only louder. It wasn’t until the nibbling turned into a zipper sound that she caught on it was the screen getting cut. She put down the scissors and slid off the chair and went across the kitchen. At the stove she swung around the corner into the little hallway and felt for a few yards along the dark walls until she came to the washing machine room.
He was just a shadow at first, standing with the light shining through the back door window behind him. Madeline couldn’t see a single thing except his outline, and from that little she knew he was not Pop. He was too tall and too thin. His arms hung halfway down his legs; his fingers were long and skinny. He wore a hat that in this light looked like a baseball cap, and from underneath his hair stuck out like it was a bundle of old grass.
Madeline thought of asking him, Do you want something, but she knew the words were not going to come, so she stood there in her maternity dress, waiting for his move.
Damn, what are you doing here, girl? the man said. His voice was rough and full of breath, like when the wind blew at night and scraped loose sticks up
against the side of the house.
I’m — I’m not feeling right, Madeline said.
That’s a shame, the man said. Madeline wanted to see his face, so she would know how he meant that. Behind him the screen door had been sliced open, and then it was just working at the lock on the wood door, she guessed, because that was not open and he was sliding something that looked like a pulled-out paper clip into his pocket. Will you do me a favor? he asked. Madeline nodded. Good. You step back now. Keep your eyes on me and your hands down at your sides.
Madeline did this. Her shoes made a sucking noise when they came off the floor. One foot behind the other. The man stepped toward her, coming away from the sun, and when they passed through the hallway and rounded the corner into the kitchen, she could see him.
His hair was brown and so dirty it had separated into oily strips and his scalp showed. His jaw was huge, maybe as big as half his face, with a brown beard — lighter shade of brown than what was on his head — springing out just faint enough for you to wonder if he’d smeared something over his cheeks by accident. He had on jeans and a jacket missing all its buttons. Underneath was a T-shirt with a picture of a gun on it. The gun was in a bed, and it was smoking a cigarette, and beneath the picture was the word Afterglow.
What do you want? Madeline asked. She was backing into the kitchen and could hear the TVs yelling and laughing. Do you want our stuff?
I don’t want to steal anything, the man said.
Well, don’t you get any ideas about me. I’m pregnant, you know.
He looked her skinny body once over, up and down. She didn’t feel the way she sometimes felt with boys. This man’s eyes didn’t try to see underneath the clothes, but they didn’t look at her like a cute little girl either. They seemed to see her like a ladder, maybe, or a rock. Pregnant, huh, he said.
That’s right.
He waved a long arm toward the chairs. Sit down, he said.
Madeline backed to the chairs and eased herself into one.
Jesus, he said, noticing both TVs. He snapped the set in the kitchen off. The one in the living room, he watched for a second. Then he picked up the blender and aimed. It was a perfect throw. Glass burst into the room, flew all over the furniture. It tinkled as it settled. That’s better, he said, taking a deep breath. He turned to her and grinned.
It was so quiet. No sounds even from outside.
That was the only color set we had, Madeline said.
Too bad, he said. He shrugged, spun around to the refrigerator and pulled the door open. Nice stock, he said, crouching down.
Madeline didn’t tell him not to be fooled, that there was mold drilling through most of what was in there.
Where’re your bags? the man said.
Paper bags? Between the sink and the garbage.
He glanced around, then snatched a few bags and shook them open. Into them he loaded the contents of the refrigerator. He picked food off the shelves with both hands, moving fast. When he straightened up, he had it all; every last stick of butter.
He hoisted the bags onto the counter. Plates? he asked. Madeline pointed to the cabinet. He pulled one down, opened the bread, peeled off some turkey loaf, and made a sandwich.
Ugh, Madeline mumbled. I hate turkey loaf.
The man looked at her, half the sandwich in his mouth. With the next bite he took in the rest. His mouth opened so big, it seemed like he could easily toss a few cupcakes in there at the same time. His eyes were blue and glassy. They looked as if they had a film over them, as if he couldn’t see out and so she couldn’t see in.
This how you do your shopping? Madeline asked.
Lately, he said. He wiped his mouth with his hand and belched.
Madeline could hear Mrs. Lubbock next door. The neighbor had a birdhouse out back and was filling the tray with seed. Every winter bird known to man had gathered somewhere nearby and was chirping like it hadn’t eaten since summer.
Then the man started ripping drawers open — silverware, tin foil, pot holders. He pulled them out one by one and left each sagging open like a tongue. When he hit the odds-and-ends drawer, he bent down and scraped through the bulbs and tacks and thread till he grabbed a package of clothesline. He stood up.
What are you doing with that? Madeline asked.
Where’s your bedroom? he said.
You wouldn’t hurt me, would you? I need to stay healthy for this baby.
He looked past her, as if she was really a shadow behind her. Then he walked toward her and reached over her head for the table. She could smell his body, old sweat and salt, stronger than her own body ever smelled when she lived with the second aunt and had been in the mood to go without washing half a week at a time.
His hand pulled back from the table. He had picked up her scissors and was pointing them at her. Show me your bedroom, he said.
You didn’t have a weapon?
I do now.
Madeline shook her head and looked at the floor. She’d let his bark make her think he had a bite. She’d let herself lose her head — and she’d only been inches away from those scissors. Damn. Time to get a grip, girl.
Madeline got off the chair and walked through the living room into the front hallway. By the front door she paused and peered up at the stairs and back toward the living room. From where she stood, everything looked normal. No way of seeing the broken glass or the cut door; they were too far from the front hallway. But she knew everything wasn’t normal because she could hear the man behind her, breathing, and in her head she could see those scissors, sharp and gleaming. She walked up the stairs, slowly, and the boards creaked behind her.
At the end of the hall, across from the bathroom — still a little steamy from her hour soak this morning — was Madeline’s room. The door was open. Her blanket lay on the floor, and clothes were hanging from the posts and piled all over the dressers. The man looked at her bed, a little twin, and the ice green pillowcases. Nice place, he said. Now, go stand against the bedpost.
He walked up close, pressed his hands to her shoulders, and arranged her so the post went right up against her spine. After sticking the scissors through one of his belt loops, he tore open the clothesline package. He took the middle part of the clothesline, leaving both ends free, and circled the rope around her and the post so she became like a scarecrow with her arms pinned down stiff against her sides. He knotted the rope at her shoulders and her knees, tight enough so she could fall asleep standing up if she wanted. Then he pushed off his shoes with his feet and tied the loose ends of the rope to his hands and lay down on the bed, face up to the ceiling.
Madeline waited a minute for him to say something. When all he did was swallow and sigh a few times, she said, Is that what you’re doing? You broke in here to take a nap?
He crossed his arms beneath his head and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. For some of us, he said, it’s a luxury.
Sleeping’s something everyone’s got to do.
If you’ve got a place to do it in. Some of us aren’t always so lucky. And it’s the twentieth of January, you know. Can’t very well sleep along train tracks in the winter. No heat and no privacy and too much ice left over from that blizzard. He glanced down from the ceiling and looked at Madeline with his blank eyes. Turn your head, he said.
Turn it where?
Away.
Madeline looked toward her open door, across the hallway, into the bathroom. The sun lit up the frosted glass of the window and the jar of bath crystals along the sill. Underneath the tub sat three books. She tried to remember what was happening in the one she’d shoved back there this morning. A black-haired French horse breeder had just entered the story.
The man on her bed yawned.
You keep quiet, he said, but if something happens, you better let me know.
You going to sleep all morning?
I’ve been wanting a bed for days. I think I’ll just see.
Thirteen years that mattress had lain under her body, first with crib sides and plastic p
ads for her wetting, then crowded with dolls until her mother decided Madeline was getting in the way of romance and sent her to Aunt Number One, where the dolls were deemed too babylike. Madeline saved some dolls by hiding them in her closet, and at night when the aunt was asleep Madeline pulled the dolls out and curled her arms around them. Aunt Number Two said she didn’t mind dolls, and in fact slept with a stuffed rabbit herself, but after Madeline lived there awhile, she brought the dolls, including a twenty-year-old panda that Aunt Number Two had given her, to Goodwill. The aunt cried when Madeline told her, shouting, Now you’ll find out what lonely is because you’ll have to sleep alone, and tracked down Pop so Madeline could move. That’s when Madeline started holding a pillow at night, imagining it was a man sleeping quietly under the covers beside her.
Now, behind her, a man was finally on the bed, his breathing too shallow for him to be asleep. His tossing about made it clear he couldn’t settle in. Against the bathroom window the sun had the brightness of late morning, which meant the man had been in the house a few hours. Madeline wiggled her hands, but she couldn’t budge them an inch. Next door, Mrs. Lubbock turned on her shower, and the pipes rattled up with water.
The man groaned. Jesus! he said. What the hell’s wrong with this mattress? There’re all these things sticking into me.
What kinds of things?
Little knots of some kind.
Must be the buttons, Madeline said.
You left the buttons on your mattress? Any lamebrain could tell you you take the buttons off, he said, and flipped himself over.
I never felt them.
It makes no sense to me how you couldn’t.
Maybe you just have a sensitive body, Madeline said.
I have slept on rocks, he said. Just yesterday I slept in the weeds by that fence behind your house.
No wonder you came in here looking for a bed.
He didn’t say anything. The birds outside kept singing. Madeline tried to sort out the voices. Cardinals, sparrows, chickadees. The man tossed again, muttering a string of curses.