Pretend We Are Lovely

by Noley Reid

  Once, when Shell was three, he wouldn’t get into the car. Vivvy was in my arms, where she mostly lived those years because Francie insisted on making Shell mind her. Which never worked. The two of them were just a wrong match. I strapped Vivvy in the car seat. I got in to drive. Francie couldn’t persuade him in any way. So she dragged him and he bit her fingers until there was blood on his lips.

  Enid

  I’m in the forsythia, in its lines of shade. Slid beneath the low branches, into the hollowed center. I’m on my back watching the sun, seeing can I make myself go blind. Sometimes I have to blink or it’s like onions.

  Floey noses around my edges. “Go on,” I tell her. “Get out of here.” She picks up her head and looks at me. Her baby is fat and nearly as tall as Basey now. He tumbles around in the dirt by the sycamore. Squawking and needle-teething sticks. “Go on!” I tell Floey. “And take your baby dog with you.” But she just stares.

  I shut my eyes and let the heat cover me and I almost can taste the thick orange.

  “Hey.”

  My eyes are starry white when they open. I blink and think maybe I have gone blind. But then it comes back. Clint stands outside the bush, looking in at me. I try to sit up but there’s no way really to do that in here. And now he’s coming in. He peels back the branches, stoops low, and slips in between them, scratching his bare shins and near-poking his eye.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

  “Why do you have to be such a creep?”

  “I’m not a creep. Who asked you?”

  “So let me come in.”

  “Fine. Suit yourself.”

  He wedges himself between me and the thick stems shooting up out of the ground. He’s on his side, facing me.

  “Quit it,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Looking at me.”

  “Who says I’m looking at you?”

  “Quit it.”

  “Shows what you know,” he says, making a harrumph noise like Daddy when he’s grading. “Your dog’s getting on mine. Your dog’s a perv.”

  “Is not!”

  “Look right there,” he tells me and points over my head.

  I prop myself up on my elbows. She is. She’s nosing his bum and then jumping up on his hind end while the new dog rolls in something stinky. Clint laughs.

  Then he’s on me. On top of me. He’s pushing his mouth at mine and it’s wet and soft and then there’s his tongue poking at my lips and I give a little breath like maybe I’ll know what to say if I can get some air. And his hand, his right hand is on my shoulder gripping me hard.

  He leans back. He looks at me. This boy with hair the color of fuzz on a peach, and black eyes. With tan freckles and white, white skin.

  “Wanna do it again?” he asks.

  I shut my eyes and pucker.

  This time he doesn’t mash me so much. I start with my mouth open and his tongue moves around on mine slow and squishily.

  “You’re built, Enid.”

  I think maybe it’s a joke and want to punch him but he smiles and so I let him go on, his hand smoothing around on my skin.

  Vivvy

  Today’s mail is: pretty catalogues, a magazine addressed to Dad, which is odd, bills to Mom, and a blue envelope for me. A letter. With a Ziggy sticker on the back and a Hello Kitty sticker right by my full name: Vivian Scilla Sobel. I go for Mom’s letter opener and carefully slice the top of the envelope.

  Dear Viv,

  How are you? I’m fine. School’s boring. But I like my teacher this year all right. He’s a man. And he has a moustache. He’s kind of hairy—you know, down the front of his neck. The boys in class are retarded, though. They want to hold hands and they give me quarters if I’ll sit by them on the bus.

  I could come see you. On a train. I’m not sure how much a ticket to Virginia costs but I’m pretty sure I’ll have to sit with a whole bunch more boys.

  Do you miss me?

  I miss you.

  I told my friend Larissa about how you jumped three in a row—and not trotting poles, either—and she didn’t believe me. (She’s not a very good friend, so don’t worry.) Anyhow, I didn’t tell anyone about the pond.

  Keep in touch.

  Write back soon.

  Love,

  Agatha

  I take it to my room. I read it again. Her handwriting is neat, even if it slants forward a bit too much. The ink is thickly blue. There is a purple tulip at the bottom of the page. I get out my box of stationery. I open the top drawer to my desk, select first a green pen, then a good lavender one. I lie on my bunk rereading her letter. I start: Dear Agatha. I cross it out and tear the page down the middle. Too messy.

  I start again: Dear Agatha. Regular. Better. Neater, loopy, curvy. I am fine. How are you?

  Then I am stuck. I stare at hers, at mine, back and forth, wondering if Mom will let me use her special green notepaper, and finally I remember.

  I run downstairs. The dogs get up and look at me there.

  The plate is in the refrigerator, still piled high with her lunch. “Mom?” I call out, knowing by how quiet the house is. “Mom,” I say again, this time soft as a whisper.

  Enid comes trundling up the basement steps, a bag of chips in her hand. “Ma?” she asks me and drops the bag as if, if she is not holding it, I will not think it ever belonged to her. I run out into the yard, not calling her, just going to the driveway and standing there, looking at her car.

  Enid and the dogs follow me back inside. We run upstairs. To her room. The bed is empty; her stack of blankets hangs off the far side of the bed.

  “Daddy?” I hear behind me.

  “Enid, no!” I say but it’s too late. She has called his office.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  I go to the bed. I look quickly to the bathroom but the door is wide open, no light or sound. I pick up a few of the blankets, lift them back up to the bed. Floey lies down in the rest. The littler dog gnaws at the satin fold-over edges.

  “We don’t know where she is,” says Enid.

  “Get off, Floey.” I pull what I can out from under her.

  She stands and shakes her neck so her tags come around to the front. At my feet, nearly covered by Floey’s fur and the remaining four blankets, Mom is a circle on the rug: eyes closed, not moving.

  “Enid!” I yell.

  She stretches the cord, rounds the end of the bed to where she can see, and her hand squeezes mine. I let go and bend down to Mom.

  “She’s here, Daddy,” says Enid. She has both hands on the mouthpiece, holding it so close to her lips her voice must be hissing on his end. “Yes, I’m certain . . . No, I don’t think so.”

  I take Mom’s pillow from the bed and try to wedge it under her head. Her eyes flash open.

  I let go, take the phone from Enid. “You need to come,” I tell him.

  •

  I don’t know why we are parked in the Kroger lot. Dad leans into the car, kneeling on the seat to get her, and then slides her out—almost lifts her right into the air getting her to her feet. I slide out after her. I want to touch her hand. Or the hem of her shirt or something.

  Enid takes my hand in her balled-up fist. “I’m scared,” she whispers.

  Dad helps Mom to the curb. I shake off Enid’s clutchy fingers. I walk behind Mom, watching to see if she will fall. Dad takes her first to the rows of stacked fruits and veggies. He rips open a bag of carrots, wet and unpeeled so they’re white and dull. Two old ladies stand staring.

  “A good start,” he says and puts a carrot to her mouth. Her lips are tight against it. Her whole body says no. He unwraps a head of cauliflower, twists off a tiny bit, and puts it to her cheek. “This is nothing,” he says. “Just crunchy air. Just chewing is all. Just chew.”

  Mom’s eyes shut. Her neck bends to put her face more in his hand. Her peeling mouth breaks apart just enough that he can work in the bite.

  “Yes,” he says. “Like that. Just like that.” He tries another b
ut she clenches again. He picks up a head of iceberg lettuce and puts the leaves to her mouth. He rubs her temple and her mouth opens. She takes the bite.

  “Crunching water, that’s all,” he says.

  The faintest smile crosses her face. She’s always loved iceberg. He gives her another and another bite. Then we are to fruit and he tries apples because he doesn’t know any better. Bananas next, but they are even worse.

  I pick over the oranges, hand him the smallest one. “Fewer calories,” I say. “Don’t let her see that it’s a navel, though.”

  He takes it but then studies me. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. I look at her and feel him turn away, back to her.

  Mom steps back from the cool spray coming down on the plums. She begins to wander away slowly, leaning on the produce bins for support. She moves toward the end of the fruits, toward the sliding exit door. She is dressed like a mental patient: a skirt that sits hip-level and slides side to side, so the hem of it dangles down to the left or right, the front or the back, no matter what she does; a pink blouse buttoned all the way up yet still floppy around her neck and shoulders; and Keds that flop around on her feet like clown shoes with each step she takes. Dad turns back to her again and peels the rind of the orange. Juice dribbles all down his arms and in a stream down the belly of his shirt.

  “Sweet,” he says, offering her a segment.

  Her tongue catches a drip. Maybe she lets herself taste it if only to keep tidy. Or maybe she can’t resist. Her mouth takes the entire piece and I can see her work through the motions of chewing. Then something happens. Her face changes. She lets the pulp fall from her mouth. Dad catches it but quickly puts another wedge inside her before she shuts again.

  “Okay,” says Dad. “It’s okay. You’re getting something from the juice. A little sugar is all. That’s good. See if you can’t get that down.” He puts his hand over her mouth, saying, “See? You’re doing just fine. You’re doing it. It’s not so bad.”

  She gets that one down. It moves along her throat like a man’s Adam’s apple sliding down-up-down.

  Next is grapes, then kiwis that Dad bites into to start them out of their fur. Then he leads her on to the milk case, one arm behind her waist, encircling her entirely, coming back around to grip her by the elbow. He picks up a tub of yogurt, peels back the foil, and scoops his fingers into it. I expect a real fight at this, but she is easy. She is willing. A few more scoops and he drops the near-empty cup to the floor. A tub of cottage cheese. A stack of American slab slices. And he is just dropping these as they go.

  I turn back to see the trail behind us, take an inventory in case she asks me later. I am thinking: 2 for the cauliflower, 35 the kiwi, 7 cherry tomato, and 4 for the grapes. 75 in yogurt, two cheese slices at 60 apiece. I lose track and start over: 2 + 35 + 7 + 4 = 48 + 75 + 60 + 60 = 243 = five or six miles of quickwalk.

  Enid has trailed us so slowly through the store we’ve gone through entire aisles without seeing her. Now here she is, trying to hold all the smeared containers, all the rinds and wrappers they have dropped. I look away.

  We turn for the next aisle and we have a crowd following us. I check their faces. Make sure I don’t know any of them and they don’t know me. Ahead of me, Mom stumbles and Dad steadies her. We are in the crackers now. Ritz and Town House, Premium and Krispy. Every time he rips open another wax paper sack, he takes them by the handful and crumbles them into her mouth. Broken corners and smashed dust cover her sticky chin. His shirt is stained now with Mom’s spit and some milk, salt, and sugar. His face is flushed and shiny, his eyes dark with pupil.

  In the cereal aisle, he begins pouring Rice Krispies directly into her mouth. And she actually tips back her head to allow it. She crunches and crunches, now struggles to gulp. Her mouth smacks open. Dad pulls her along into the juice aisle.

  She balks at the apple juice he twists open.

  “She wants lemon or lime,” I tell him, handing him a little squirt bottle like the ones she puts in her water as a suppertime treat.

  He doesn’t take it. He pours from the jug of White House and lets the juice drench her face and chest until she lifts her chin to it and starts to swallow.

  A lady comes up behind us now in a blue smock and name tag. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but what’s going on here?”

  Dad doesn’t answer. He has looked at nothing but food and Mom, Mom and food since we got here.

  “You can’t,” she says and tries to take some of the wrappers and box tops from Enid, who will not let go; she stomps and twists, keeping her grip like it’s the one thing in the universe she can do for them, for her. “You’ll have to pay for all of this,” says the lady.

  “We’re not thieves,” I say and keep going after Dad and Mom, who are on to the ice cream aisle. And she never goes in the ice cream aisle so I can’t have any distractions now.

  Enid comes up slow behind us, dropping things and stopping to rearrange them in her arms.

  He has a spoon from somewhere, a pink plastic party spoon, and Mom is sitting on the tiles, leaning against the freezer case while he spoons something white with fudgy chunks into her. Surely she will need to know the numbers on this one. I try to see the nutrition table on another box still in the freezer, but only a couple are turned to face me and the door fogs up.

  Dad gives her the spoon and so I watch her. She is really eating now. I watch her scrape the surface and put the ice cream to her tongue—upside down so she can suck at the spoon properly, something Enid does. The ice cream is softening; her scrapings get thicker and she keeps scooping even without Dad holding her hands.

  Enid has caught up. So have a lady, a man with her, and a little boy and his mother.

  Dad leans over her now. Squatting as well as he can, he starts kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. His fingers wipe away the crust of cereal dust and cracker crumbs stuck to her chin with orange and apple juice. The wet chocolate at the side of her mouth. And she keeps eating, keeps spooning it in as he does this.

  The boy is led away. The Kroger clerks surround Mom and Dad until they are out of view.

  I see Dad and Mom standing below the manager’s office tree house. The man leans on his half wall. He disappears and now he is standing with them. Dad hands him money; he looks at it first, some of it, then just hands it over to the man. We can’t hear what they say. Dad shakes his head at the man and Mom stares on blankly. She is looking our way, mine and Enid’s, but it doesn’t look like she sees us. She is the biggest mess I have ever seen. Dad tries to smooth her hair and kiss her disgusting mouth. I take Enid’s hand and we go out to the car and wait.

  17

  Enid

  I’m in the tree. Hanging upside down, nearly. Two fingers—one, two—making sure.

  The air’s steamy-thick. The backs of my knees red because they’re wet and pine bark is rougher than cats’ tongues.

  One finger—just one. Around a slimy branch but still enough to keep from falling.

  No fingers. Hanging still.

  Vivvy

  I walk along the street looking at the peeled paint around doorframes, the cracks that vein the paint. I could head up the hill on Preston. But I walk right up to Clint’s front door.

  The house is dark brown; the wood trim cuts grids across the windows even darker, as if the whole house sits in shade.

  His mother is out in the yard, pulling up ivy from the base of the house, gripping it and yanking down tendrils from the brick wall. “Lisa’s at a friend’s, honey,” she says.

  “Is Clint home?”

  “Oh sure,” she says. “You can go on up.”

  I stand in place, deciding.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “Sure?” She is pretty but big. Pretty in the face.

  I go in. I look around because barging in doesn’t feel right, even though she said to. The house is so quiet. I almost walk straight through to the back door and home.

  “Mom?” he calls out.r />
  “No.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  He gets to the top of the stairs. “Oh, hi.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Science. You done it yet?”

  “No. Why weren’t you at Lisa’s party that day?”

  “Why would I?” he says. “Come here.”

  I thought he would be there. “Okay,” I say and I walk up the stairs to him.

  We go into his room.

  “When will your mom come in?” I ask him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh.”

  Clint looks at me. I don’t know where to look but finally do—right back at him. There are things he doesn’t know about me and I like that. I have been kissed by another boy since the last time I was up here. A girl too, though that doesn’t count.

  “Come here,” he says and heads into the bathroom, which is stupid. Nobody is in the house; it hardly seems necessary.

  “What’s wrong with here?” I ask.

  When he finally reaches for my face and leans up to my mouth, my eyes shut because I can’t help that but my mouth opens.

  “I don’t want to anymore,” I say, from nowhere.

  He rocks back on his heels, his hand shoved down into his pocket.

  “What, you like Evan Greeley now?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t like anyone.”

  He picks up his science book and stands just looking at it. “Easy,” he says, sliding in his chair with his book still in his hands. “That’s what you are.”

  I go down the stairs, hearing the pull of his mom raking through the ivy. “Cow,” I say through the open screen door. Then I run out the back. Enid’s about to fall from our tree. I pretend not to see her, think: let her fall, let her fall.

  •

  I try to write Agatha but I fail again. I try to tell her things that matter, then things that don’t, but nothing comes. I think of her hair, her loops of curls at night in the bunkhouse.

  Enid

  At home, Vivvy’s on her bed, propped on her elbows with the box of pink notepaper. She presses her felty purple pen to the crisp sheet and drags her hand through the letters. Then she’s unhappy and crumples it up, starts over.