Lori Ostlund - After the Parade

“Leah is the oldest, then Ruth. They always wear braids. Jonah is next. He’s the fat one, and my father always says to him that he named him after Jonah and not the whale and to go out and ride his bike.” Zilpah giggled. “Then Matthew and Mark are the ones that got switched after supper. They get switched all the time, but they don’t care. They hate onions. My father tells my mother to put onions in everything so they’ll learn to eat what’s put in front of them. My father loves onions.”

“My father liked them also. He hated pancakes, so we only had them when he was at work. He died, but we still don’t have pancakes because my mother forgets to go to the store. Do people who don’t have legs eat less?” he asked, now that he knew people could be legless.

“I don’t know,” said Zilpah. “I don’t know anybody who doesn’t have legs.”

“You didn’t meet any in the hospital?”

“The only person I met in the hospital was the foster. She was my roommate.”

“Who’s the foster?” he asked.

“She’s the one who helped my mother clear the table after supper.”

“Is she your sister?”

“She is not my sister,” Zilpah said.

“Who is she then?”

“She’s just… foster.”

“Why don’t you like Foster?”

“Her name’s not Foster. It’s just what she is. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Am I foster?” Aaron asked, thinking it sounded awful to be foster.

“No,” Zilpah assured him. “You’re not foster. For one thing, I wouldn’t let you sleep with me if you were foster. They wanted her to sleep with me, but I said no, so she has to sleep with Ruth and Leah. They like her, so it doesn’t matter. I get to have my own room because of the condition. I need lots of rest. But I don’t mind if you’re here. Besides, my mother said you wouldn’t be here long, just until your mom’s better.”

“She said that?”

“Yes, and she said we have to pray because she might have the devil in her like Edgar Allan Poe.”

Aaron sat up. “She doesn’t have the devil in her.”

“How do you know?” Zilpah asked.

It was true. He didn’t know. His aunt opened the door. “I’m going to have to move Aaron if I hear anything else out of the two of you,” she said.

After she shut the door again, they giggled quietly, and soon Zilpah’s breathing became slower. He had awakened that morning in his own bed, his father squinting at him from the night table, but he would fall asleep in this bed, a bed belonging to a stranger who was his cousin, and when he woke up, still in this bed, it would be a new day and there would be nothing connecting him to his real life. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, it was morning.

Three days later, school started, but Aaron was not allowed to go, despite the new dress shoes. He stayed behind with his aunt. Each morning she packed lunches while his cousins readied themselves, chaotically, for school, the mood in the house lighter because his uncle had already left for his job managing the first shift at the beet plant. At eight o’clock, somebody — usually the Foster — announced the arrival of the school bus, which led to one final burst of activity before the house became still, the front door standing open in his cousins’ wake because the last one out never knew he was last. Closing it became Aaron’s job, and because he craved duties, was comforted by routine, he liked being in charge of the door, though his heart ached at how easily he had stepped through the gate into this new life.

Only then did Aaron and his aunt have breakfast. She said a prayer, and they ate English muffins, which were his aunt’s favorite, but he could not get used to their sourness or the way they scratched the roof of his mouth. While they ate, she told him stories that would have scared him at any time of day but seemed particularly terrifying at breakfast. She said that if he passed a pigsty and the pigs were leaping in the air, it meant the devil was floating overhead and the pigs were trying to devour him. Another morning, she took a can of corn from the cupboard and pointed at the bar code on the back. Someday, they would attempt to put a bar code just like it on his body, she said, taking his wrist and tapping it to show where the bar code would go. It was called the mark of the beast and he must never let them do it. He did not know who “they” were, but he liked the way she held his wrist, leaving buttery fingerprints behind, and he assured her that he would not.

Next, they took out the cleaning supplies, and his aunt let him help her clean, though it had to be their secret. He discovered that he liked cleaning, and he thought that his aunt liked having his help. It was always noon when they finished, so they sat at the table and ate again, usually bread with a slice of Velveeta and cottage cheese, his aunt chatting the whole while about everyday things that did not involve the devil or the mark of the beast. Mainly, she talked about a church luncheon that she was in charge of planning. “It’s a big responsibility,” she said. He nodded, and she turned over an envelope to take notes. “There will be buns with ham. Do you think it’s better to serve them open-faced or with the tops on?”

“What will you do with the tops if you don’t put them on?” he asked.

“Well, the tops will be another open-faced sandwich,” she explained. “With ham on them.” Her reddened hands made a somersault, demonstrating how this would work.

“That sounds nice,” he said.

“Do you think so? I just don’t know.” This was where the conversation about the luncheon usually ended.

One day as his aunt sat looking defeated and he sat wondering how to reassure her, the telephone rang. She stood up and answered it. “Yellow,” she said, her voice sunny like the color, and in a quieter voice, “Oh, Dolores. How are you?” He moved closer so that he could hear his mother’s voice. “Rusks,” his aunt said, and then, “I’ll put him on.”

He took the receiver, which was still warm and carried a cheese smell. His mother sounded far away, like she was asleep and was calling him from inside her dream. “Are you being good for your aunt and uncle?” she asked.

He nodded, unaccustomed to using the telephone, and then, realizing she was waiting, he said, “Yes, I am. Are you in the hospital?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Are you sick?”

“I guess I am.”

“Where does it hurt?” he asked.

“I’m very tired,” she said. “Have you ever felt like that? So tired that you only wanted to sleep?” He waited for her to say more. He could hear something in the background, a television maybe. Finally, his aunt said, “Time to hang up, Aaron,” and she held out her hand for the receiver. He turned away and said what his mother always said to him after the book and the kiss and just before the dark. “Sweet dreams.” He handed the phone back to his aunt because sweet dreams was always the last thing.

* * *

At his aunt and uncle’s house, the day after Saturday was not called Sunday; it was called the Sabbath, a name that appealed to Aaron because it sounded clean. On the Sabbath, the entire family — his aunt and uncle, his cousins, and the Foster — went to church, his uncle driving them in two batches. Aaron wore his new dress shoes on the Sabbath because his aunt said that sneakers were not appropriate in God’s House. God’s House was not a house at all; it was a church, of the sort that he had passed with his parents many times though never entered because his parents were not interested in churches. On the second Sabbath, all the adults in the church, including his aunt and uncle, took turns going to the front and kneeling while the pastor stood over them. Aaron was used to seeing his aunt on her knees because they scrubbed the floors together each morning, but he could not reconcile his stern, unbending uncle with the contrite figure kneeling at the front of the church. When they returned to the pew, his aunt had purple commas turning up from the corners of her mouth. The sight of them made him queasy.