We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire

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We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire Page 6

by Joy McCullough


  spine broken

  no gold leaf

  or knowledge, learning

  sufficient to stanch

  the flow of blood

  from sword to gut.

  Margot.

  Always dominant

  in stature, presence, voice

  Father is small and frail

  a few breaths from his last.

  Philippe is hunting.

  He will return, bring help.

  A single bandage

  cannot help a man

  torn limb from limb.

  Your mother?

  No time to obfuscate;

  Father reads my face

  like pages in the books

  around us and just as useless.

  He sobs, grief forcing

  the sword still deeper.

  I grab his hand as though

  I can hold him here

  for one last lesson.

  The cool weight of his ring

  our family crest

  our legacy

  powerless to protect us,

  presses into my hand.

  Helene?

  This time I manage

  an upturn of my mouth.

  She’s alive, Papa.

  She’s alive.

  I speak the truth:

  my sister will live

  until I kiss her eyes shut

  like Mother’s

  and Father’s

  and all I hold dear.

  I could stop

  hunker down

  somewhere with

  no corpses

  and live awhile

  in a world

  where Helene is alive

  where Father’s ring

  hangs heavy on my hand

  because he has indulged me

  one more time

  that I could be

  the hussy of this family

  and not because I took it

  off his lifeless finger.

  No sooner

  has possibility sunk

  tendrils into the soil

  of my grief than

  it is yanked out

  by the roots

  replaced by a blight

  of terror, creak of a door

  within striking distance.

  Striking distance

  and me without

  a weapon.

  Mademoiselle?

  Not blade but balm: Colette.

  Colette who soothes, cajoles

  and sands my roughest edges.

  Bites her tongue

  when required

  but never holds back

  when we are two

  and doors are closed.

  How could I have

  forgotten Colette?

  I fling open the closet

  where linens are stored

  and find her curled

  among sheets and blankets

  a gash across her cheek

  dripping onto rich brocade.

  Colette . . .

  The servant girl

  bursts into tears

  at the sight of me

  her mistress.

  I thought there was

  no one left.

  Me too.

  I kneel, gather

  her in my arms.

  Oh, me too.

  CHAPTER TEN

  What comes next is too awful to face, so I wander away from the words in search of food. Papi sits alone at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cereal. Cereal. Not even fancy granola he made himself with artisanal honey and sprouted oats. Just some crap that came out of a box with anthropomorphized grains on the front.

  “You okay, Papi?” I rummage in the fridge. Supplies are low. “Hey, are you going to the store soon?”

  “¿Por qué no vas vos? Now that your summer is wide-open, maybe you could pitch in a bit more.”

  My summer isn’t wide-open. Not now that I have to tell Marguerite’s story. “I can if you want. I thought you liked to have control over the grocery shopping. Remember the white-onion-yellow-onion debacle?” I pull out the carton of eggs, empty save for a light gray speckled egg produced by one of the chickens next door.

  “Lo siento.” He rubs his face and then leaves his head resting in his hands, like Atlas holding up the entire world.

  I crack the egg into a pan on the stove and clear Papi’s dish away. “You need coffee?”

  “Siempre.”

  I don’t make magic in the kitchen like Nor, but I do like the predictability. The routine. Grind the beans, boil the water, pour it over the grounds, voilà: coffee. Sure, the result could vary depending on the type or freshness of the beans, the amount of water, some other variables, probably. But I’m never going to go through those steps and end up with yogurt or kombucha. It will always be coffee, come what may.

  “Want to make me a list and I’ll bike to PCC?”

  Papi lifts his head from his hands. “No, gracias. I’ll go on my way back from my afternoon appointment.”

  I look around the cluttered living area. Most of it is Mom’s clutter and she gets mad if anyone else tries to organize it. “I’ll vacuum,” I offer.

  “Gracias, mija.”

  * * *

  —

  After I’ve vacuumed, I settle back on my bed with Marguerite. But the words won’t come. I can envision the attack, but what comes after is somehow worse. Everyone seems to think those moments behind the frat house were the most awful of Nor’s life. But Nor doesn’t even remember that. The worst, she said, was when she woke up in the filthy alley, stripped down, broken ribs, and a used condom next to her the only indication of what had happened. That’s when the nightmare began.

  I mop the kitchen and bathroom next, as though by cleaning every surface in the house, I might uncover my way forward in the story. Can I do it justice, what Marguerite and Colette have been through?

  Putting that horror into words almost diminishes it. How do you articulate a primal scream? I consider skipping ahead to a later point, but that feels like cheating. It isn’t right, it isn’t fair to skip over what Nor didn’t have the luxury of skipping. What Marguerite had to endure.

  I’m sweeping the front porch when Jess walks up with a cat on a leash.

  “Cinderemma!” they say.

  This time they’re obviously talking to me, but it takes me a minute to process what they’ve said. “Em’s not short for Emma. It’s Marianne,” I say. “Do you live around here?”

  “My aunt Clare does. This is her cat, Vlad. We’re having our daily constitutional.”

  “You take your aunt’s cat on a daily walk? On a leash?”

  They grin and squat down to scratch the cat behind the ears. “A couple times a week. But it’s not as catchy to say our biweekly constitutional.”

  Biweekly: both twice a week and every other week. Because sometimes the most precise word choice is still completely wrong.

  Inside the house, Chester starts barking his head off, no doubt having caught sight of the cat. On a leash, no less—the rare cat Chester might have a chance of catching.

  When I was little we had a cat named Bingley, and Chester was deeply in love with it. They slept curled up together, shared treats; it was weird. And ever since Bingley moved on to the great cat tower in the sky, Chester has been in search of someone to fill the cat-shaped hole in his heart.

  “You have a dog?” Jess says. “Vlad loves dogs.” At the look on my face, they grin even wider. I get the feeling Jess lives for a reaction, no matter what that reaction is. “Vlad’s a very unique cat.”

  I fi
ght a smile. “Like you.”

  “Meow.”

  “I would invite Vlad inside, but Chester’s a little unpredictable.”

  “Gotcha.” Jess unhooks the cat from the black leather harness. “See you at home, Vlad.” The cat bolts down the sidewalk and disappears around the corner.

  “He doesn’t need to be on a leash?”

  “Who does? Unless you’re into that sort of thing. No judgment.”

  “I mean, if he’s an outside cat, why does he need to be walked?”

  Jess shrugs and sits down on the porch steps. “Just because he can walk alone doesn’t mean he should have to. Plus, I kind of like the stares I get when I’m walking a cat.”

  I’m basically done sweeping the porch, but I keep going over the same spot. What are they even doing here? Francie and Sam never drop by without notice. Is Jess my friend?

  “I wanted to check on you,” they say when I finally sit down. “After Chocolati. The sidewalk?”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “I’m the one who should apologize! I thought maybe there was something we could do, but I only upset you.”

  I stare across the street at Mrs. Zackey’s perfect rosebushes. “Why do you care so much?” About everything. “About Nor?”

  “Well, for one thing, I can be insufferably nosy. But I think the better question is . . . why don’t most people care more?”

  And that’s it—I have to write what comes next because most people wouldn’t care enough to write it. Because it would be easier to ignore what comes next and fuck easy.

  Suddenly I’m dying of thirst. “Do you want to come inside?”

  In the kitchen, I busy myself with pulling out our cold drink options: sparkling water; lemonade; this weird carrot-orange juice blend my mom likes in the morning.

  Jess sits at the counter, arranging the figures of a little clay Nativity set that sits out year-round, not because anyone in my family is especially religious, but because Mom got it on her first trip to Guatemala to meet Papi’s family. “Nor was nice to me,” Jess says. “During a time when a lot of people were pretty shitty. It stuck with me. I’d like to think I’d care about what happened to her even if she hadn’t been nice to me first. But if you need a reason, I guess that’s it.”

  Now they’re adding Mom’s trio of little gray ducks made from Mount St. Helens ash to the worshippers at the manger. They catch my eye, dare me to challenge the right of water fowl to attend the Christ Child’s birth.

  I pour sparkling water for Jess and get a glass of regular water for myself. “I want to know more about medieval stuff,” I say.

  It takes me all of five minutes to confess that I’m writing about Marguerite, and Jess doesn’t bat an eyelash. They take it seriously, like of course I’ve decided to write a novel about this obscure historical figure. It’s more energizing than I would have imagined, having someone believe it’s not a completely ridiculous endeavor.

  By the time Mom and Papi pull up, Jess is showing me this website about people of color in medieval art.

  “Books and movies make it look like medieval Europe was all totally white, but that’s bullshit. There were loads of Africans at all class levels. So if you’re writing an authentic story, your medieval cast of characters shouldn’t be all white.”

  I ponder what I’ve got so far. “I could make Colette African.”

  “Who’s Colette?

  “Marguerite’s maid. I mean, she’s fictional. We don’t know anything about the people in Marguerite’s life.”

  “Yeah, of course.” Jess is quiet for a minute. “But do you want the first African character in your story to be a servant?”

  “Oh.” The thing is, Marguerite is a noble in a house full of servants. Her entire family is dead. There is no one else.

  “It’s something to consider,” Jess says. “The roles we’re given.”

  The front door opens on Papi making soothing sounds while Mom rants about something. “I honestly don’t know if these kids don’t believe I’ll check if their papers are plagiarized or if they just don’t care!”

  They both walk in, arms full of groceries. “Hello there,” Papi says.

  Jess leaps up like royalty has entered the room. “Hello, Marianne’s parents. I’m Jess.”

  “Jess,” Mom repeats. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually rant about my students in front of company.” A horrified look crosses her face. “You’re not a student at Central, are you?”

  “They’re in my year,” I offer. “At Fremont.”

  I tell them Jess uses they/them pronouns and Papi nods. “Are you on the paper, Jess?” he asks.

  “No, sir. I’m more of a theater nerd.”

  Papi raises his eyebrows. “Sir? I like that. But you can call me Andrés.” He starts unloading the groceries.

  “I’m Kath.” Mom sinks into the chair next to Jess. “And freshman English compositions are going to be the death of me.”

  “Mom teaches lit at Central.”

  “Marianne!” Jess exclaims, pointing at me. “And Elinor! I just got it!”

  Mom laughs with delight. “Did you? Few people do.”

  “Sense and Sensibility, right? Perfect for the English professor’s daughters.”

  “Andrés chose the names,” Mom says. “I prefer Brontë. But Jane and Shirley aren’t such pretty names.”

  “I’m with you, sir,” Jess says. “Andrés, I mean. Austen is queen. Marianne’s the Kate Winslet one, right?”

  “Yes,” Papi says, abandoning the groceries. “The movie is excellent but you must read the book!”

  “Papi—”

  “Oh, I have!”

  And then the medieval websites are abandoned as Jess and Papi bond over their shared love of Austen’s social commentary, her deliciously bitter wit, her examination of power structures.

  I want to love Austen. Brontë too. Trailblazing female authors and all. Except I can’t help but think their romantic leads were all—these men who are supposed to be so desirable—abusive jerks and creepers.

  * * *

  —

  “Who’s the goodest boy? Chester’s the goodest boy.”

  Jess sprawls across my bed, snuggling Chester. They’ve bonded in record time. Possibly because of the amount of cat hair always clinging to Jess’s clothes. It definitely isn’t the vegan dog treats they bring every time they show up. Which has been almost every day in the last week.

  “Do you ever walk this dog? You should walk this dog. Want to go for a walk right now?”

  I close the notebook and bang my head on top of it.

  “Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

  They totally won’t.

  “Or we could take him to a dog park. We can’t take him on the bus, though. Unless he’s a therapy dog, which he totally could be. He’s absolutely serving me Dogtor Freud vibes right now. Do you have your license? I don’t have my license.”

  I try to keep the edge out of my voice when I say, “Why don’t you walk him? His leash is on a hook in the kitchen.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, Marianne Dashwood?”

  I bang my head less gently.

  “Okay, fine. Chester and I know when we’re not wanted. But when we get back, you are paying attention to me because breaks are an important part of the creative process.”

  “Also because Summer has abandoned you and you’re needy.”

  “Ouch,” they say, turning back in the doorway. “But accurate.”

  Right around the time Jess started showing up at my house, Summer left for an expensive theater program she and Jess have always done together, but this year Jess can’t.

  “Divorce is expensive” is Jess’s only explanation.

  With some peace and quiet, I write a little bit more. I’ve decided to try making Marguerite’s servant Colette Ethiopian�
�a well-represented immigrant group in France at the time—so I’m rethinking her character and naming her Zahra. But then I get stuck on the layout of the castle. Jess would know. I grab my phone to search for the answers I need and try not to linger on my lack of notifications.

  No word from Nor must mean she’s okay. If she weren’t, I’d know.

  She’d tell me.

  I think.

  What happened to her didn’t happen to me. It doesn’t compare, not even a little bit. I’m an asshole for even thinking this, but: I lost something huge that day too.

  SCAFFOLDING

  All is not lost.

  Zahra’s survival means

  my heart does not beat

  alone within these walls;

  perhaps my sister survives.

  The urge to tear

  the castle stone from stone

  as though it is not

  already in ruins

  wars with my loyalty

  to Zahra. Born into service

  weeks after my noble birth,

  our lives have been

  entwined from the first.

  Sure-footed Zahra is

  unsteady on her feet.

  Our world is upside down,

  I take my servant’s weight.

  What is it?

  What can I do?

  A careful inventory

  reveals ripped dress

  bloody skirt

  face that will scar

  for the rest of her life

  if she lives long enough

  for tissue to form.

  Where are you hurt?

  Zahra can’t meet my eye.

  Zahra, who bathes me

  scrubs my bloody rags.

  Between my legs,

  she finally says.

  I take her hands.

  They hurt me too.

  So many.

  I know.

  I should have—

  No.

  No time for blame.

  I will not leave you

  but we must go.

  Together we stumble

  like Philippe on the bottle

  but our foreign limbs

  precarious steps

 

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