Esi Edugyan - The Second Life of Samuel Tyne

The girls sat rigid on the rug after Eudora left. Ama reached out and turned on the set, looking at the twins on either side of her to see if she’d done right. Chloe’s face remained sober, but Yvette’s reflected pleasure, and Ama smiled at her and sat back. She knew Yvette wanted to befriend her, but was merely too shy, or possibly too afraid of Chloe to try.

Without warning, Chloe stood and yelled, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Ama was appalled and, apparently, so was Mrs. Tyne. From the top floor her mortified voice called out, “Where are your manners? And how old are you?”

They could hear Eudora laughing. “Little door to the right of the washer down there.” Her voice became demure. “We just had it installed.”

When Chloe left, relief seemed to come over Yvette. She smiled strangely and, standing up, gestured for Ama to follow. Startled, Ama looked from the bathroom door to Yvette, who’d begun to creep up the stairs. When Yvette’s expression darkened, and she mouthed the words Come on , Ama weakened.

Mrs. Tyne and Eudora took their tea in the kitchen. The girls tiptoed past, unhinged the storm door, and fell from the house into the streets.

It was a hot, fragrant day. Wild roses, marigolds and sunflowers finally awake, everything felt wonderfully alive. Even the sickly birches looked lustrous. The pavement radiated heat.

After running for a few minutes, the girls sat by the roadside to catch their breath.

“Why did we leave Chloe?” said Ama.

Yvette didn’t answer. She drew up her knees and began to pick at a scab. Ama was surprised by how weak and thin her knees looked, like the knees of a three-year-old.

Fat purple dragonflies began to pester them, and frustrated, Yvette swatted them away.

“I can’t stand these goddamn things,” she said. Seeing she’d shocked Ama, Yvette laughed. She stood and wiped her hands roughly on her thighs. “Come on, let’s go.”

They explored the town for half an hour, barely speaking. Aster seemed an oasis, a small, isolated place amidst miles of nothing. Its streets were inconsistent, some changing their names every few blocks, so that tourists (the few who arrived each year) were often confused. Of those streets whose names remained consistent, half ended abruptly in wilderness. The commercial district was confined to three streets, the rest being either residential or derelict. The girls took Pine Creek Street to its end, and sat in a thicket of three-foot-high weeds.

Ama didn’t understand why Yvette ignored her. Hadn’t they run away from Chloe because they had wanted to be alone together? But Yvette only became interested when Ama stopped trying. Then Ama felt Yvette’s huge eyes scrutinizing her. When Ama tried to engage her, Yvette looked away, only to begin the whole uncomfortable process again a few minutes later.

Yvette swore every time she killed an insect. And yet, when Ama asked her if she’d like to leave, she only scowled. The foliage was filled with slow-moving black-and-yellow grasshoppers, ants and maddening blackflies.

“Know what?” said Yvette. “You’re just like these flies. Pesky.”

Ama searched Yvette’s smiling face. “You don’t mean that,” she said. When Yvette’s smile grew even wider, Ama laughed nervously.

“Let’s go!” Yvette rose to her feet and, hopping off on one leg, accidentally jumped onto a tall anthill. “Mother of Christ, get them off, get them off!” As Ama slapped the few red ants off Yvette’s legs, Yvette began to twitch and dance and scream. And she was such a sight, so comic, that Ama laughed. A dark look crossed Yvette’s face, but she seemed to realize her ridiculousness and began to laugh, too. Holding her hands to her mouth, she ran back to Pine Creek Street with Ama trailing behind.

Yvette came to a halt. Her face had hardened, erasing any trace of her earlier excitement. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said in a cold, unemotive voice.

Ama felt disconcerted. “All right.”

“Let’s go to Thorpe’s,” said Yvette. “Last one to cartwheel there is a rotten egg.”

Yvette turned a series of cartwheels. Ama was perplexed that someone who supposedly had to go the bathroom was physically comfortable enough to strain herself this way. “Okay,” screamed Yvette, as Ama continued to walk, “it’s the walkers versus the cartwheelers.” And she flipped the entire way to the diner.

When they entered, dressed in their Sunday best but with weeds in their hair, they were stared at so fiercely that Yvette walked out.

“I hate that,” said Yvette, trembling. “Even though this town used to be all black, everywhere you go they stare at you.”

“Well, we don’t exactly look like queens.” Ama pulled fluff from her hair.

Yvette gave Ama a sullen look. “It’s a diner , Asthma.”

Ama flinched. “Don’t call me that. You don’t mean it.”

Rolling her eyes, Yvette grabbed Ama by the sleeve and led her to the diner across the street. Jackson’s had that heavily varnished look that implies filth even when extremely clean. They took a booth by the back, the farthest from the washroom, and making a drama of clutching her gut, Yvette ran to use it.

Ama sat looking out the window. On one side of Aster, the roads sloped gently down to the river, so that Ama could almost see over the copses of spruce to the water. She drummed her knuckles on the table, glancing around. A man at the counter looked over his shoulder at her, smiling when their eyes met. Ama looked quickly away. Only two other booths were occupied, both by people sitting alone. In the farthest one sat a thin, amiable-looking man with a newspaper, whom everyone seemed to call “Cap’n Ron.” He had the throat of a flute, whistling so luminously his range rivalled the weathervane.

“Listen to the old pipe,” said the counterman.

In the middle booth sat a small Asian woman with the bones of a bird, her eyes downcast. She appeared to be arguing with someone who was no longer there. She ate her breakfast one item at a time.

Finally, Yvette returned from the bathroom. “Did you fall in?” teased Ama, instantly sorry she’d said it. Yvette gave her a dark look.

When the counterman came to take their order, Yvette stood to leave. Ama grabbed her hand. “No, no, it’s okay, I’ve got money. Let’s get two strawberry milkshakes, all right, Yvette?”

Yvette shrugged, crossing her arms against her chest. Instinctively, Ama felt there was something different about her. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Were you sick in there?”

Yvette laughed through her nose and gave Ama a haughty look.

Ama’s face flushed. She didn’t understand the hostility.

The counterman placed the milkshakes on their table. Sipping hers nervously, Ama studied the indifference on Yvette’s face. Yvette guzzled hers down, as though she hadn’t eaten in days. An idea occurred to Ama.

“Chloe?” she said, searching Yvette’s face.

Yvette looked startled. “Chloe?” She laughed. “You’re just as crazy as she is. You know she sees signs in everything? Like if the weatherman says it’s going to rain and it stays sunny, then that’s an omen. Or if rooms are painted dark colours, then they’re sacred, and so are dogwoods, and the number six, too. But she can’t count anything out loud. To her, counting something is like cursing it, and anyway, she seems to think everything in the world is connected so that there’s really no point in telling things apart.” Yvette scoffed. “Chloe thinks she was born so that the sun would have a reason to shine.” Yvette pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and said in a falsetto, “Her life is one of awful responsibility.”

Ama continued to drink, not knowing what to say.