Annie DeWitt - White Nights in Split Town City

I flattened myself against the wall and peeked around the corner. Beyond the doorway to the bedroom, Father stood at the foot of the bed. Callie was bent over, rifling through a drawer. Father watched her in the mirror, admiring her cleavage. “I thought I had an extra towel in here,” she said. As she slid the drawer closed, Callie turned around to face him. She tugged at the string of her dress. The dress fell open, revealing the tan of her stomach where I had seen her rub oil those mornings as she’d sunbathed on Otto’s lawn. The thin string of her bikini was replaced by a sheer bra. Her crotch was barely covered by a small triangle of leopard print. Callie’s form moved across the room toward Father as though in slow motion. With every step she seemed to become more feline and supple, dragging the paint of her toenails through the shag of the carpet. I waited for him to stop her.

When Callie was inches from Father’s face, she stood with her feet shoulder width apart. She reached for his hand, moving it up to her shoulder, pausing for a moment to trace the outline of her breast. I watched as she slid the strap of her bra down the curve of her arm, the thick red of her nipple peering out from the cup as it fell. The rosacea on Father’s forehead flared as it did under stress. Callie eased her way toward him and pushed him back onto the bed.

As their bodies met, the water bed gave way beneath them. The movement seemed to revive Father. He put one hand on Callie’s chest and pushed her slightly away from him. With the other, he reached behind the small of his back. “There’s something underneath us,” he said. From behind his back Father produced a plastic action figure. The toy was missing a limb. Father held it in front of his face. “I told those boys not to play in my bed,” Callie said. “No harm done,” Father said placing the toy on the nightstand beside a bottle of antacids. Beside the bottle sat a book— The Dance of Anger —and an empty wine glass stained red at the bottom.

“I should go check on the chicken.” Father said, and started to get up.

“Wait,” Callie said.

I slipped away from the door and tiptoed down the hall.

The chicken was burnt and slightly charcoaled on one side.

“Something smells mighty good in here,” I heard Father say as he came up behind me. He put his arm around my shoulder to steady himself. “Good girl, Jeannie,” he said. “I can always count on you to take up the slack in a pinch.”

As Callie came into the kitchen, he stiffened. “Let me set the table,” he said picking up a stack of plates from the counter. Callie reached for her Marlboro Reds where she’d left them next to the chopping board. She picked up the pack and flicked the top of her nail several times against the bottom as though settling something. “It’s your call,” she said.

Father disappeared into the dining room and Callie turned toward the stove. “Dinner’s on,” she yelled to her boys out the window. As Callie exhaled a long deep drag of smoke, Birdie let go of the hoop where she hung. Rod caught her, cradling Birdie in his arms as he walked toward the house. In the light of the court, the two looked triumphant. Birdie’s blonde ringlets spread out over Rod’s shoulder. Her hair gleamed against the flannel of his shirt.

“Who’s ready for some bird?” Father said as Rod and the boys came into the kitchen.

We ate in the dining room, a small square set of oak furniture erected in an alcove off the kitchen. The walls were papered in a faded pink floral. The floor was a worn orange shag. Save the vintage chandelier Callie had hung over the table, the room had the feel of having once been something else. A nursery perhaps.

“Yes to everything,” Father was saying, “That’s the problem with kids these days. They’ve never been told no.” Father was telling Rod about his trials with the Steelhead brothers. Lately they’d been calling the house at night and hanging up the phone. Liden was onto Fender and I about the magazines.

“Boys will be boys,” Rod said. “If you burn too much of your fist into them, they turn into a pack of wailing sissies. And there’s nothing I hate more than a sissy.”

“Right,” Father said crossing and uncrossing his legs. “Well I suppose it’s different. I’m surrounded by a house full of girls.”

“Lucky man,” Rod said, smiling at Father. “I suppose there’s always room for another in the mix. Isn’t that what you’re up to here?”

“You’re insufferable,” Callie said to her husband under her breath. She looked proud of herself. Her cheeks flared under the bone.

“When’s the last time someone said no to you Rick?” Rod said to Father.

After dinner we all went out into the yard to feed the yearling. The cow was waiting for us at the gate near the shed. They’d set him loose in a small run they’d patched together out of an old white slat-board fence and sections of chicken wire.

“Sturdy little fellow,” Father said, holding Birdie up over the fence so she could reach the cow.

“The way that thing is growing, we should have steaks by fall,” Rod said.

On the way home Father was silent.

“He used to be a wrestler,” I said after a while. We were sailing down the hill on Merriam past the farmhouses in the center of town.

“Reach into the glove compartment,” Father said. “Give me one of those cigars.” He didn’t hesitate to light one as he drove.

When we got back to the house Father settled into the couch in front of the news. “I’m going over to Otto’s to check on the Sheik,” I said.

“What time is it?” Father said looking out Mother’s windows at the amount of light left in the sky. “Alright, so long as Otto’s in the barn mucking the stalls. Be back before bed. And take the flashlight with you so I can watch out the window when you cross the road.”

Light blasted through the windows that lined the front of Otto’s barn as I ran across the street. It reminded me of an old movie theater, each stall screening a different run. I hurtled toward it, flashing the light once behind me so Father could see.

Wilson was raking the hay out of the aisle when I came in.

“Hi Wilson,” I said. “It’s just me. It’s just Jean.” Wilson looked up and focused on me for a minute.

“I went to camp today,” he said. The way he was standing, belly over the belt, his chest puffed out, I could tell that today was a proud day for Wilson. It was odd to see an old man look so young again. He was bald and fat and graying. No less than forty in the light, the way the shadows clung to his face. And yet standing there in the aisle in that moment, his cheeks looked like a six year old’s the first time he hits his first solid ball over the diamond. A good wind comes in from the outfield and brings some color into his face.

“Was she pretty?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Daddy’s proud of me. I went to camp and I met a redhead. A pretty girl.”

“Your Daddy’s always proud,” I said.

“You’re pretty too, Jeannie,” he said. “Daddy says I like the pretty girls.”

“There’s few things I’m less wrong about than women,” Otto said. I hadn’t seen Otto standing at the far end of the barn. He must’ve been in the tack room settling the evening’s chores when I’d come in. I knew he’d go there occasionally when the feed was on and the horses were settled for the night. I’d walked in on him one evening sitting at the draftsman desk he’d bought for His Helene back in the days when she still kept the books for the riding lessons they ran out of the barn.

Otto’s face that night had a drawn, wan look that accompanies sleeplessness. I went to him out of pity.

“Tell the story again, old boy,” he said to Wilson as I snuck up under Otto’s armpit, wrapping one arm around his waist.