Seré Halverson - The Underside of Joy

I shook my finger at David and Gil. ‘You. Kittens? ’ We went to investigate. The kids’ legs stuck out from under the bed, traces of mud lodged in the rubber tracking of their sneakers.

‘They keep running under your bed so Callie can’t play with them. But now we can’t find them under there. We can hear them, though.’ We crouched down to take a look. Annie was right; we couldn’t see them.

Gil said, ‘I bet there’s a rip in the box springs — they’re probably up in the coils. My friend had a kitten who, uh’ — he placed his hand around his neck in a choke sign — ‘because it got caught up there. It happens frequently with kittens. We hear about it at the shelter too. The undersides of beds and sofas, they’re kitty death traps.’

‘We’ve got to get them out, then. And I believe it’s your guys’ duty to help me.’

Gil went for a can of tuna from the pantry and opened it, and both kittens jumped out like little rabbits.

‘Okay, kidd os ,’ David said. ‘Hold the kitt ies and stand over by the door. We’ve got to fix this bed.’ Under his breath he said to me, ‘The last thing you need around here are strangled kittens. Got a needle and thread?’

I nodded and went to the closet to get them. David and Gil removed the mattress and set it against the wall. Then they flipped over the box spring.

‘The ship’s capsized! Mayday! Mayday!’ Annie shouted, while she and Zach jumped up and down with the poor kittens, who looked like they would die of dislocated necks anyway, despite our valiant efforts.

‘Careful. You might hurt them,’ I warned.

David and Gil were studying the underside of the box spring, which faced away from the kids and me.

‘Well,’ David said. ‘Well. I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.’

‘Uncle David, how many times do I have to tell you? We are not, ’ Annie insisted, ‘ monkeys. ’

But David ignored her. ‘Um, Gil? Want to help the kids feed the cats in the other room ?’

Gil nodded, led the kids out to the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

‘Ella? Sweetheart? Don’t look…’ He’d gone pale. I couldn’t imagine — an old dead kitten skeleton?

I stepped over the bed frame and around the box spring to look. There was a rip — more like a slit — in the sheer fabric that covered the box springs. And up, tucked away in the coils, were several very thick packets of what looked to be letters.

We stood, staring, not speaking. Finally, David said, ‘I feel a chill. Perhaps we should fire up the woodstove.’

‘David… I…’

‘No one has to know.’

We still hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken them out to look, to make sure they were what we knew them to be. I thought I might vomit. David put his arm around me.

‘Ella. No one has to know.’

I shook my head. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Sure it is. I don’t see anything.’

‘David. I see. I know.’ A roar howled in my ears, and my whole body pulsed in time with my heart.

‘Well, don’t read them, then. They’re probably full of requests for him to keep the kids forever. That’s what I perceive them to be.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘They could be.’

Through clenched teeth I let out, ‘I could kill your brother right now if he weren’t already dead.’

David whistled, let go of me. ‘ That’s harsh.’

‘Anger is the easiest — of every fucking feeling I’m having right now. Anger is a breeze. Compared to the rest.’

‘Listen, don’t lose it. Listen to me. You have to think of Annie and Zach and what’s best for them. And we both know that includes not being stolen away by her.’

‘How do you know that? How do you know who she really is? We thought we knew Joe. ’

‘Joe had his reasons. I’m sure he thought he was doing what was best for the kids, and I’m sure it was best.’

‘I cannot bear to hear excuses right now.’

‘Don’t open them. Don’t read them. It doesn’t matter, anyway… It’s not going to change anything.’

‘How can you say that? It changes everything. ’

‘You’re the mom they know and love. You’re the one who can provide a loving, stable home in the town where they’ll grow up knowing every one. If she takes them, we’ll never see them.’ He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Forget I said that. This wouldn’t even begin to change a judge’s viewpoint. I mean, we don’t know what those things say. We can end this before it even starts.’

I cut back the fabric and removed the packets. I counted them, keeping them contained by their rubber bands. There were twenty-six, like a half deck of cards. The other half of the story. While I sewed up the fabric, I knelt on the letters, afraid that if I stuck them in a drawer, David might grab them and run. Instead, he leaned his back against the wall, crossed his arms, and in a rare silence, watched me.

I stuck the packets inside the waistband of my jeans, under my T-shirt, and we set the box spring back on the frame, the mattress on top of that. He shook out the down comforter; he fluffed up the pillows.

Only when he left the room and closed the door did I stick the letters between the box spring and the mattress. Out in the not-so-great room, the kids seemed oblivious to the awkward silence between us three adults. Gil and David hugged the kids. Gil hugged me, but David left without even looking in my direction.

I had to keep moving. Put the litter box in the crate in the kids’ room for the night. Crawl under both their beds to check for rips, to check, too, for more letters.

Both kids, revved up on kittens, screeched around corners from bathroom to kitchen to bedroom and back again until I yelled, ‘Knock it off!’ which set Annie on a round of knock-knock jokes, which she recited while jumping on her bed.

‘Please! Just stop,’ I said, my voice cracking.

‘What’s wrong, Mommy?’ Annie asked, falling to her butt, still bouncing a bit on the mattress. ‘Don’t you like the kitties?’

‘I do,’ I said. ‘I’m just tired.’ Read them The Cat in the Hat, then hug and kiss them, sitting on the edges of Zach’s bed, then Annie’s. Smooth back their hair off their foreheads, a bit sweaty from all their racing around. Wonder if they’ll want them cut again, or if they’ll want to grow them out. Watch fluttering eyelashes, butterflies kissing dreams, until they finally fall asleep. Lift the kittens from their arms and place them into the crate, their soft mews reminding you that this was their first night away from their mother. Stick an old stuffed bear from the toy box and a small clock behind it in the crate, a poor substitute for their mother’s beating heart.

I lay in bed, but there may as well have been elephants tucked below my mattress. I turned on the light, retrieved the packets. They were sorted by postmark. Some were addressed to Joe, some were to Annie and Zach, all in a neat and angular script, though the first were shaky, then shakier, until gradually getting smoother through to the last. Only the five envelopes bearing the earlier postmarks had been opened.

I made a cup of tea, staring at the water until it boiled, dunking the bag in over and over until it turned the water almost black, then climbed back in, patting the bed for Callie to join me. I wanted to read every word, but I didn’t want to know.

I did not want to know. My life, as I’d imagined it, depended on me not knowing.

I shoved the letters in my nightstand drawer, turned facedown the picture of Joe on the nightstand, and tried to turn down the high hum coursing through my veins, like the hum of an intercom that precedes the crackling announcement: Prepare for imminent disaster.