Darcey Steinke - Sister Golden Hair

My mother pulled the rotary to the end and let it ratchet back.

He stood up and tried to take the phone from her hand, but she held on so hard the skin over her bones turned white.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, holding the receiver over her head.

“You’ll feel better when you’re in the duplex,” he said, taking the receiver from her hand and placing it back into its cradle. “You’re just tired.”

She let him lead her over to the bed, but when he tried to put his arm around her she shrugged him off and moved back to her earlier position on the far side of the mattress, her face to the wall.

In the night, when the train whistle woke me, rattling the window beside my bed, I saw through the dark that my mom was still lying on top of the covers, now in her quilted bathrobe, her back to me, her face toward the wall. I thought she was at a 2 moving toward a 1, but then I heard her long, even breaths and realized she’d fallen asleep. My dad was sitting in the vinyl chair by the television. At first I thought he was sleeping too, but then I saw the whites of his eyes gleam in the parking lot light slanting through the break in the curtains. Of course he was worried about my mom, where we’d live, if we had enough money, but I think his grand plan was also failing. He’d given up church stuff, the prayers, the creeds, the vows that he had told me were a waste of time. He didn’t want to dig a channel, he wanted to find the spring and let it flow over us. We were, he had told me with great enthusiasm, in a period of devolution, unlearning what we knew. It seemed crazy to me that my dad was trying to get to a place without maps, or directions. He was tired, confused, despairing. And what if God actually was dead like a lot of people said? Then, rather than finding Him, my Dad was going to have to invent Him all by himself.

Early in the morning, Dad came in with donuts. He told us he’d already been back up to Bent Tree. Miranda was gone and we could move in. We got dressed and threw everything into our suitcases. On the drive Dad played the radio, and he kept glancing over at my mom in her paisley head scarf and sunglasses.

“You look like a movie star going incognito,” he told her.

She turned her head toward him and softened her mouth.

As we pulled up in front of our duplex, Mr. Ananais, the manager, stood by the curb waiting for us.

“She’s still in there,” he said. “I had her out earlier this morning but she got spooked and locked herself back in.”

“Now what?” my mother said.

“Well,” the manager said hesitantly, “I think if she heard the children’s voices—”

“No way,” my mother said. “I’m not having my kids exposed to some lunatic.”

“Come on,” my dad said. “It’s worth a try.”

“I’m not going,” my mom said, looking straight out the window.

“I’ll go,” I said.

“Me too,” said Phillip.

Inside the duplex a few boxes were stacked against walls. The floor was covered with mangy gold shag and the walls were white, holes here and there where pictures had hung. The rooms smelled like incense.

Mr. Ananais led us upstairs, down a short hallway to a closed bedroom door.

“Miranda,” Mr. Ananais said, “the new tenants are here.”

Beyond the door, mattress springs released and I heard soft footsteps moving closer. I could hear Miranda breathing against the wood.

“I’m in a very bad mood,” she said.

“Do you want me to tell you more stories about my cat?” Mr. Ananais asked.

Dad looked at me with his eyes wide open. Mr. Ananais was more accommodating to the woman than either of us had expected.

“Yes,” Miranda said, “that would be nice.”

“Well my cat, Hector, likes to watch TV. Bonanza is his favorite show. He knows exactly when it comes on each afternoon. If it’s not on, he gets mad and goes to the television and meows until I turn it on. I put a pillow down and he lies with his paws folded in front of him.”

Mr. Ananais looked at my father, who was flushed and smiling. More than anything else in life, Dad grooved on surreal situations. If my mom had been here, she’d have been whispering that this was crazy.

“Why don’t you say hello, kids?” Mr. Ananais suggested.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Jesse. I’m twelve. ”

What else would she like to know about me? I could tell her how I loved to read or that lavender was my favorite color, but in the end I went with my favorite candy bar.

“. and I love Almond Joy bars. ”

“I like fire engines,” Phillip said. “And pizza!”

There was silence but it had a different texture, more like macramé than leather.

“Come on, koukla ,” Mr. Ananais said. “Remember how we talked about having to call the police? I really don’t want to do that.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, no, no,” Mr. Ananais said. “But really, what do you want us to do? This nice family wants to move in here, these children need a place to sleep, you can’t just stay locked in there forever.”

“What if he comes back?”

“I already told you,” Mr. Ananais said. “His mother says he’s gone to Texas.”

There was quiet from behind the door.

“Are you still there?” Mr. Ananais asked.

“Where else would I be?”

“Are you coming out?” he asked.

“Could you sing me a song?” she asked. “I think that would settle my nerves.”

The only song we all knew was “Jingle Bells,” and before we got through the first verse, our car horn sounded.

“That’s him!” Miranda screamed.

Mr. Ananais looked at my father. I knew he was worried that any gains would be lost if Miranda got frightened.

“We’ll go,” Dad said. “We’ll come back in an hour or so.”

In the car my mother’s face was fixed in a smile that was not a smile at all. She’d moved over to the driver’s side and before we had our doors shut she took off down the mountain, speeding past the ranch houses in the subdivision below.

“Getting us killed,” my father said, placing a hand on the dashboard to steady himself, “isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Is she coming out?”

“I think so,” my father said. “Though you may have ruined it by laying on the horn.”

“Now it’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

My mom swung around a corner, coming so close to a boxwood hedge that the branches scraped against the side of the car.

“Remember that guy who came to our door in Philadelphia saying he was a narcoleptic?” my mother said.

“He was very convincing,” my father said. “He fell asleep several times right in front of me!”

She pulled onto the highway and sped out toward the interstate. We were going so fast that the buildings and trees melded into one long ribbon, unfurling behind the car.

“Remember the time you gave a hundred dollars to that slut?”

“She was a member of the congregation and she was pregnant,” my father said.

“Remember how you used to go to the loony bin every single Saturday?”

“I was making pastoral visits.”

“When you let that drug addict sleep in our guest room he drank all our cough syrup.”

“For God’s sake slow down,” my dad said.

“You want me to stop?”

“Yes.”

“Say please,” she said.

“Please,” my dad said.

She hit the brake and we all flew forward, then fell back hard against the seats as she rolled the car onto the shoulder. The tires crunched on the gravel and the fender pressed against a patch of weeds.

Throwing open the door, my mother stumbled out of the car and started to walk down the side of the highway, her dress whipping around her knees in the wind and the silky tails of her head scarf bobbing. Heat made the air muzzy and thick as if she were going through a time warp, moving away from us into another dimension.