Melanie Thon - First, Body - Stories

I breathed into him, beat his chest. It was too late, God, I know, his face pressed to the floor all this time, his face in the water, Emile dead even before he drowned, your bottle of Valium empty in the sink, the foil of your cold capsules punched through, two dozen gone — this is what did it: your brandy, your Valium, your safe little pills bought in a store. After all the shit we’ve done — smack popped under the skin, speed laced with strychnine, monkey dust — it comes to this. After all the nights on the streets, all the knives, all the pissed off johns, all the fag-hating bullies prowling the Fenway with their bats, luring boys like Emile into the bushes with promises of sex. After all that, this is where it ends: on your clean wet floor.

Above the thunder of the water, Clare said, He doesn’t want to live .

Clare stayed very calm. She said, Turn off the water, go .

I kept breathing into him. I watched the butterflies between his bones. No flutter of wings and Clare said, Look at him. He’s dead . Clare said she should know.

She told me what to take and where it was: sapphire ring, ivory elephant, snakeskin belt. She told me what to leave, what was too heavy: the carved bird, white stone. She reminded me, Take off that ridiculous coat .

I knew Clare was right; I thought, Yes, everyone is dead: the silent heads in the TV, the boy on the floor, my father who can’t be known. I thought even you might be dead — your husband asleep at the wheel, your little boy asleep in the back, only you awake to see the car split the guardrail and soar.

I saw a snow-filled ravine, your car rolling toward the river of thin ice.

I thought, You never had a chance.

But I felt you.

I believed in you. Your family. I heard you going from room to room, saying, Who’s been sleeping in my bed ?

It took all my will.

I wanted to love you. I wanted you to come home. I wanted you to find me kneeling on your floor. I wanted the wings on Emile’s hips to lift him through the skylight. I wanted him to scatter: ash, snow. I wanted the floor dry, the window whole.

I swear, you gave me hope.

Clare knew I was going to do something stupid. Try to clean this up. Call the police to come for Emile. Not get out. She had to tell me everything. She said again, Turn the water off .

In the living room the tree still twinkled, the angels still hung. I remember how amazed I was they hadn’t thrown themselves to the floor.

I remember running, the immaculate cold, the air in me, my lungs hard.

I remember thinking, I’m alive, a miracle anyone was. I wondered who had chosen me.

I remember trying to list all the decent things I’d ever done.

I remember walking till it was light, knowing if I slept, I’d freeze. I never wanted so much not to die.

I made promises, I suppose.

In the morning I walked across a bridge, saw the river frozen along the edges, scrambled down. I glided out on it; I walked on water. The snowflakes kept getting bigger and bigger, butterflies that fell apart when they hit the ground, but the sky was mostly clear and there was sun.

Later, the cold again, wind and clouds. Snow shrank to ice. Small, hard. I saw a car idling, a child in the back, the driver standing on a porch, knocking at a door. Clare said, It’s open . She meant the car. She said, Think how fast you can go . She told me I could ditch the baby down the road.

I didn’t do it.

Later I stole lots of things, slashed sofas, pissed on floors.

But that day, I passed one thing by; I let one thing go.

When I think about this, the child safe and warm, the mother not wailing, not beating her head on the wall to make herself stop, when I think about the snow that day, wings in the bright sky, I forgive myself for everything else.

November again. Harvard Square. I called Adele. Not the first time. One ring, two — never more than this. If my mother loved me, she’d pick it up that quick.

Don’t be stupid , Clare said.

No answer, no surprise. Coins clanging down. Jackpot , Clare said.

I saw Emile across the street. He was a Latino boy with cropped hair, reaching for his mother’s hand.

Then it was December third. I remember because afterward I looked at a paper in a box so I’d know exactly when.

One ring. My mother there, whispering in my ear.

Now you’ve done it , Clare said.

Past noon, Adele still fogged. I knew everything from the sound of her voice, too low, knew she must be on night shift again: nursing home or bar, bringing bedpans or beers — it didn’t matter which. I saw the stumps of cigarettes in the ashtray beside her bed. I saw her red hair matted flat, creases in her cheek, the way she’d slept. I smelled her, the smoke in her clothes, the smoke on her breath. I remembered her kissing me one night before I knew any words — that smell: lipstick and gin. I heard Clare sobbing in the bunk above mine, her face shoved into her pillow, and then our mother was gone — we were alone in the dark, and if I’d had any words I would have said, Not again .

Who is it ? Sharper now, my mother, right in my hand. A weird warm day, so the Haitian man was playing his guitar by the Out Of Town News stand. He’d been dancing for hours, brittle legs, bobbing head. You never saw a grown man that thin. Sometimes he sang in French, and that’s when I understood him best, when his voice passed through me, hands through water, when the words stopped making sense.

I wanted to hold out the phone, let my mother hear what I heard. I wanted to say, Find me if you can .

It’s me, Nadine , I said.

I heard the match scrape, the hiss of flame burning air. I heard my mother suck in her breath.

Your daughter , I almost said.

Where are you ?

I thought she was afraid I might be down the road, already on my way, needing money, her soft bed. I saw her there on the edge of the bunk, yellow spread wrapped around her shoulders, cigarette dangling from her lips. I saw the faded outlines of spilled coffee, dark stains on pale cloth, my mother’s jittery hand.

Not that close , I said.

Muffled words. I thought she said, I’m glad . The Haitian man kept jumping, dreadlocks twisting, pants flapping — those legs, no flesh, another scarecrow man. Dollar bills fluttered in his guitar case, wings in wind. Un coeur d’oiseaux brisés , he said, and I almost knew what he meant. A crowd had gathered to listen, two dozen, maybe more, all those people between us, but he was watching me; I was watching him.

I’m glad you called , my mother said again.

And I swear, I knew then.

Je ne pleure pas , the Haitian man said.

For a moment both his feet were off the ground at once. For a moment his mouth stayed open, stunned. He was a dark angel hanging in blue air. I saw his heart break against his ribs. For a moment there were no cars and no breath.

Then every sound that ever was rushed in. Horns blaring, exploding glass; ice cracking on the river; On the ground, motherfucker — all this again.

I said, Clare’s dead .

Tell me where you are, Nadine .

Fuck you , Clare said.

The Haitian man fell to earth. I heard the bones of his legs snap. He wouldn’t look at me now. He was bent over his case, stuffing bills in his pockets.

The voice came over the phone, the one that says you have thirty seconds left. I said, I’m out of quarters . I said, Maybe I’ll call you back .

That night I found a lover.

I mean, I found a man who didn’t pay, who let me sleep in his car instead. He told me his name and I forget. Fat man with a snake coiled in the hair of his chest. I kept thinking, All this flesh. When he was in me, I thought I could be him.