Kathleen Spivack - Unspeakable Things

As she put her hands down, she felt a thick, large envelope. The smell of mothballs overwhelmed her. Instinctively, she snatched the folder and put it inside her nightgown, against her thin breasts. You never know when you might need some papers. Hidden ones. “Thief,” she thought, and the word thrilled her. Finally in the airless cupboard, a clammy, dreamless sleep overtook her.

Outside, the wind screeched and hollered. It was dark in the mouth of the building. The cold whistled through the grates. Somewhere far away, the children’s grandfather was floating through the city, doing important things that had nothing to do with them. Somewhere, that snap-jawed thing called “work” would hold Maria’s mother forever in its prison. The hours passed.

The cold winter morning moved into Maria’s clothing like snakes, wriggling into all the secret places. Her ears ached with a hopeless numbness that filled her head with throbbing sounds. Philip stirred, opened his little round mouth, and began to wail loudly. Her head hurt awfully. “Wake up!” cried her mother. “Do you want to eat something?” Ilse was anxious; she had rushed home on her lunch break and would have to leave again. Light came and went on the walls.

Delirious. The word echoed in Maria’s head. Mastoiditis, she heard also. That was a less pretty word.

Philip cried, but his sounds seemed far away. He laughed, gurgled, and let Maria know he loved her. But she could scarcely hear him, lying focused in the white hollow that held her. She needed to think very hard about it, curve the space around her so that her ears wouldn’t hurt so much, her head. She didn’t know that two adults, her mother and grandfather, were preparing for two others to join them. Soon there would be seven, then eventually nine refugees in one small, cold room high over the city. Even now, things were happening around her: people moving; Philip growing into the true companion he would always be for her; her mother receding; her grandfather shrinking also each day, so that only his ears would be left large as ever, sticking out of a tiny, dear little head that was even now shrinking downward on its stem of a neck. His hunched shoulders puffed out under their burden like angel wings under a too-large shabby coat. But for now, her ears ached and she ached with a fever so bright, it purified all else from her mind and body. She floated out of herself darkly, onto the top of the cedar chest in the corner.

“Maria, can you hear me?” Ah, that was perhaps Grandfather speaking. Maria’s hand clenched. She heard “No heat” and “the children waiting.” And “No heat” again. “I’ll talk to the landlord,” her grandfather promised. “Don’t worry, Ilse.” He touched Maria’s mother’s arm. “I’ll talk to him.”

Philip smiled and waved a friendly fist in Maria’s direction. Maria vomited. She felt prickly all over. The door of the small room where she lay opened and shut, opened and shut again. A doctor came with his black bag, then left. She heard once more that word mastoiditis. The word eardrum. Thrum thrum, sang Maria’s head. Eardrum. Thrum thrum. She wanted her mother to stay with her. But her mother had to go to work. She had to work or there would be no food for any of them, her mother explained. “Be a good girl.” The door opened and closed again. The clouds and the sun made radiant swooshing sounds through the window, and then Maria was alone.

Alone except for Anna, who, slowly suffocating in the wardrobe, slept like a stone, in a trance. Anna’s breathing was slower, more labored. For once, her mind was silent, her body, too. Her large luminescent eyes fogged with sleep; her limbs were languorous and heavy. She pillowed her head against a tweed sleeve; the day was nearing its end.

Maria woke up for a moment, sensing the door opening and shutting again. She fell back into her hot swirl of sleep as well: a sleep that was not really sleep, but, rather, the crawling of many insects toward morning. She felt rather than saw her grandfather come in and leave again with her mother and little woolly Philip. Once more, she was alone, sweating in the chill of the empty room. The door opened; opened and shut again. Maria sensed the change in the light: a shaft of afternoon sun as the day crossed the building. Then the door opened and shut again, this time behind someone else. Someone small. Someone dangerous.

“Well, my child? What is the matter? Have you been a bad girl again?” the figure muttered menacingly, almost as if to himself. He took a step or two toward the girl. “Well?” he demanded more loudly. “Have you? Speak up!” Maria felt her mother silent behind the figure. “A bad girl!” exclaimed the little man. He turned back toward Maria’s mother, addressing her directly. “If she doesn’t speak, we will make her, nein ?” he said in a sharp voice. “Speak up, girl. If you will not, we have ways. You know,” he continued, “I have my ways.” Maria opened her eyes. “You see,” exclaimed the figure triumphantly, “she understands. The bad girl understands.” At this, he walked into the room.

Maria heard the thump of a gimpy leg being dragged. “Maria,” said her mother redundantly, “wake up. Uncle Felix is here to make you better.” Maria closed her eyes again. She recognized her mother now for the traitor she was. And she knew only too well the family doctor.

Felix limped to Maria’s bedside and stood looking down at her. Maria tried to stay still, although she knew it was futile to pretend sleep. She watched the little stump of a man through half-closed eyes, and he, penetrating, regarded her. “He’s so wonderful with the children,” the European refugee population told one another. “Children love him.”

“Bad girl! Now what have you done?” Uncle Felix muttered between clenched teeth. Suddenly, he gave a loud cry. “Ach! Schrecklich! Bad girl. What have you done to Uncle Felix’s leg?” He clutched his hip dramatically and staggered, half falling onto the little girl’s bed. “Ach! My leg!” He paused, regarding the girl directly. “Now, see what you’ve done to Uncle Felix!” He straightened again. “Would you like to see it? My broken leg?”

Maria tried to worm her way farther under the covers, while at the same time still appearing to be passively asleep. Felix staggered, clutching his thigh. From the region of his hip came a relentless clicking sound. Click-click. He raised his dark eyebrows, watching the little girl intently. “You hear that noise? That is my broken leg, bad girl. My leg!” He turned to Maria’s mother behind him. She was standing in the doorway, smiling. “Did you see what that bad girl did?” he demanded, watching her for effect. “She broke my leg.” Maria’s mother laughed. Maria hated her shadow in the doorway, but she feared more being left alone with the pediatrician.

Felix tottered around Maria’s bed once more, reeling and moaning. Click-click, went the noise of the leg. He reeled to a stop, planted his cane in front of him, and lowered himself onto Maria’s bed, sitting down next to the girl. Maria wanted to shriek with revulsion and fear, but if she did, it would give her away. She willed herself to open her eyes, as if pretending to see the man for the first time.

“Now,” began Dr. Felix briskly in what was another voice altogether. “Mother says you are not feeling well. What is wrong here?”

Maria did not answer, and the watching shadows in the doorway grew closer, blocking the light with their concern.

“Open your mouth. Say ‘Ah,’ ” commanded Felix, moving closer toward Maria’s face. He peered inside. “Hmm. Have you been a bad girl?” he muttered as he peered down her throat. Maria’s ears were cracking with pain. Felix brought his large, menacing face closer to hers. “Do you know what this is?” he commanded, switching on a piercing headlight, which now seemed appended to the front of his face like a second snout. “Hmm? Well, bad girl, answer me!” Maria said nothing, shrinking back as much as she could.