Harriet Wolf's Seventh Book of Wonders (17 page)

It wasn’t here when I fell asleep. I imagine the house itself delivering this gift, Wee-ette padding through the rooms at night. But Tilton. Surely it was Tilton. She’s kept this small fragile thing all these years.

If it has been kept all these years—tenderly kept—what else is here? This house is filled with small spaces, pockets, holes. I think of the long white yellow-flowered tablecloth draped over the dining room table and how I lived there for a couple of weeks—a house within a house. This house could hold everything.

I
’m standing in the kitchen and thinking:

Coach Flynn. Conical nose, large nostrils, thick brow, heavy lower mandible, broad dorsal, inflated rib cage, heavy bulk, long arms, dense forearm fur, sparse head plumage.

When I was little, he taught the theater camp in the elementary school gymnasium. He smoked too much and chewed mints. And he wasn’t at all dramatic except when he got angry for no reason.

This was near the end of my formal education. I was in fourth grade. Coach Flynn read an acting exercise aloud from a book: each of us had to swallow an imaginary pill that he shook from an imaginary bottle and act like we were shrinking.

The other children popped their pills and shrank to the floor. I stood there.

What is it, Tilton? Coach Flynn asked me. What’s wrong?

I was embarrassed to tell him the truth. He’d been in a war of some kind. Over the course of the class, he would abandon the drama book and we would reenact shooting deaths in rice paddies. It was babyish not to be able to swallow a pill. And so I whispered, I can’t swallow pills.

He said, Well, Jesus, Tilton, you can
pretend
you know how to swallow a
pretend
pill, can’t you?

That ruined everything. We weren’t acting. We were just pretending.

Do you have some in liquid form or chewable? I asked.

Fine! He pretended to open a medicine cabinet, pick up a bottle, and pour the medicine into a cap.

I asked him if he’d read the directions. I weigh sixty-two pounds, I said.

Just take it! he shouted at me.

Later, during the imaginary battles that Coach Flynn seemed to enjoy, he killed me more times than he killed the other kids.

But I learned that acting is pretending, sometimes, and you can pretend to be able to do things you normally can’t. I never mastered this during the class—I refused to take up arms because guns are dangerous and I’m not allowed, which is why I was always a target—but in the kitchen, with my mother on her way home, I decide to become her. How else will the kitchen go back to the kitchen she wants? A dirty kitchen can’t act like a clean kitchen. Kitchens can’t even pretend. So I have to.

Wood creaks overhead. Ruthie is awake. I could ask her to help. But she doesn’t remember where it all goes. I need to do this myself.

I take on my mother’s quick wiping gestures. I whistle like her, angry and shrill, while scrubbing dishes with a small wire brush. I don’t sweep. I jab the broom at things. My mother gets angry at the house and takes it out on the floors. I close cupboards with the flat of my palm, giving them each an extra little shove so the latches click. Sometimes I say Damn it! for no reason at all.

Then Mrs. Gottleib’s car is in the driveway. Ruthie’s shoes are on the stairs, the little dogs with her. I’ve run out of time!

I look out the kitchen window. The car door opens and Mrs. Gottleib’s voice rings out. Lookee who I found!

For a moment I wonder if she has forgotten my mother and instead brought some mystery guest. But Mrs. Gottleib opens the kitchen door. My mother holds its frame with one hand and Mrs. Gottleib’s protruding elbow with the other. My mother’s plumage is flat. Lying with her head on her pillow squashed it.

I expect to feel a rush of love. Tumbling, tumbling inside of me. But I feel stiff and small. What I really want is for my mother to feel a rush of love for Ruthie—tumbling, tumbling. And I want Ruthie to have the same tumbling, tumbling for my mother.

Ruthie walks into the kitchen from the living room. The doggies pad around the linoleum.

Tilton’s allergies! my mother says.

I’ve inhaled the dogs and I’m fine! I tell her.

I guess she’s not really allergic to pet dander after all, Ruthie says.

They’re probably that kind of dog that’s been bred not to have dander, my mother says.

Poodles don’t have dander, Mrs. Gottleib says. I read that somewhere.

These are Pomeranians and they have dander, Ruthie says. And Tilton isn’t allergic.

I’m standing between them. This isn’t going the way I want it to. Not at all. I look at my mother and then at Ruthie. If we were caged birds, we’d be pacing back and forth, claw-grip, claw-grip, claw-grip, along our swings.

My mother is walking fine, but still Mrs. Gottleib’s got her elbow because Mrs. Gottleib always has to feel necessary.

Tilton, my mother says with a smile.

I’m so glad you’re home, I say—but it contains the smallest sliver of a lie.

She hugs me and I return her hug, but she can tell that I’m holding something back. She senses my smallest slivers. I’m holding back airy convertibles, fedoras, and a danderful dog of my own, and wine.

She holds my shoulders. I was only gone three days, she says, but you look years older. How is that possible? Did you grow up while I was away?

I cleaned the kitchen and pretended to be you, the way Coach Flynn taught me acting is really just pretending, so I could get everything back just right.

Coach Flynn was a jackass, my mother says.

I’m still waiting for Ruthie and my mother to say that, wow, they haven’t seen each other in fourteen years! Birds address each other with different kinds of calls. Some learn their calls from other birds in their species and some have their calls encoded in their DNA. Groups of birds in the same species can have different dialects. It’s a fact. Professor Kroodsma proved it. He worked at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst and has a book on the subject with a companion CD.

I step aside so there’s just air between Ruthie and my mother. They’re face to face.

My mother says, I told Mrs. Gottleib I’ll believe that Ruthie’s home when I see it.

And here I am, Ruthie says.

And here you are.

Ruthie offers my mother a seat at the kitchen table.

I’m fine, my mother says.

You had a heart attack. You’re not fine. Sit down.

My mother slaps her hand on the counter. Don’t tell me what to do, she says.

It goes silent for a moment. Birds go silent like this before forest fires.

Saints preserve us, Mrs. Gottleib says. And she turns to go.

Bye, Mrs. Gottleib! I say cheerily because that’s how I’ve learned to say it.

Good luck, she says. She shuts the door, and the curtains on the kitchen window fluff their skirts.

Ruthie walks to the fridge, pulls out the spaghetti casserole that Mrs. Gottleib gave us yesterday, rips off the foil, digs out an oversized spoon from the drawer, wedges it in like a shovel, and sets it on the table. It’s lunchtime.

But you haven’t even warmed it up, my mother says.

It’s fine, Ruthie says. Are you hungry, Tilton?

You only have to eat if you’re hungry, my mother says.

I don’t want to pick sides. I’m not hungry but we should eat a meal together, like families do, so I help Ruthie set the table with forks and spoons and knives even though you only need a fork for spaghetti casserole.

And my mother says so. We don’t need knives and spoons, do we? she asks.

But Ruthie doesn’t answer.

Soon we are sitting at the kitchen table—my mother included.

I fixed the television for Mrs. Devlin, I say.

Good, my mother says.

I bet she’s anxious to get that thing back, Ruthie says. You want me to drive it over?

That’s okay, my mother says.

And I wrote the poem for her daughter’s second wedding.

Nice, my mother says. I bet you she’ll love it.

What’s the poem about? Ruthie says.

Hearts and nests, I say.

Perfect, my mother says. I know that will strike the right chord.

Are you going to that wedding? Or did you RSVP with a little handwritten note? Ruthie asks.

We RSVP’d to Ruthie’s weddings with a little handwritten note and I’m sure my mother understands this comment.

And mix with all of those people? my mother says. Are you kidding? Tilton’s system would implode.

Or is she just a worry stone you’ve rubbed bare? Ruthie mutters.

What’s that? my mother says. Speak up!

I wonder if I am just my mother’s worry stone. Is that what Ruthie thinks of me?

Ruthie doesn’t repeat herself. She looks at me and says, What exactly are your diagnoses, Tilton? Who’s your doctor?

You don’t need to get into it, my mother says to me. Medical conditions are your own private business. Last I checked this is still America!

Right. America, Ruthie says.

It’s quiet.

Ruthie says, I think Coach Flynn defiled some of the girls in my class.

That’s not true, my mother says.

I’m surprised you let Tilton take an acting class with him. Acting? I mean, Coach Flynn?

He was fine, my mother says. I knew him when I was young. He kept his nose clean.

He tried to shoot me a lot, I say.

Shoot you? my mother says.

It was part of our acting lessons. I had to die repeatedly in rice paddies.

He was post-traumatic, Ruthie says. A classic case.

Well, my mother says to Ruthie, you were already gone so I don’t know what you could possibly have to say about the matter. My mother holds her head high and glances at Ruthie just to see if she’s done some damage. She wants to do damage to Ruthie. We all know this—even Ruthie should know this. Ruthie is probably interested in doing some damage herself.

The whole thing was a really long time ago, I say.

And luckily Tilton came home, my mother adds. School wasn’t for her in the end.

With home school you can work at your own pace, I say.

With the right intervention from a specialist, Ruthie says, people with various conditions can adapt very well to things like school and college and jobs and their own apartments and boyfriends and life.

My mother says, Is. That. So?

Trying to distract them, I say to Ruthie, Who did Coach Flynn defile? Did he defile you?

But this only further upsets my mother. Of course he didn’t defile Ruthie! my mother says.

No, no, Ruthie says. My life of defiling and being defiled was all before me then.

Tilton has an active imagination, my mother says. She doesn’t need acts of sexual perversion put into her mind. It’s still lunch, for shit’s sake.

Then you lead the conversation, Ruthie says, her voice mimicking calm.

I want to know whether or not the vultures have descended, my mother says.

Vultures? Ruthie says.

Vultures are people who want Wee-ette’s seventh book, I explain.

They’ll tear this house up looking for it, my mother says. If they know I’m sickly, they’ll move in and prey on Tilton’s kindness and gentleness.

Ruthie says, We didn’t send out a press release updating the media on your condition, if that’s what you mean.

That’s not what I mean, my mother says.

Ruthie leans forward and says to my mother, Do you have any questions for me? It’s been a while.

Tilton has filled me in, my mother says.

Really? On fourteen years?

My mother scoops some spaghetti casserole onto a fork and says, If you have something to add, feel free. Then she fits that bite into her mouth.

Ruthie cuts her spaghetti casserole with her knife as if to prove that a knife is necessary. How can I add anything, she says, if I don’t know exactly what you know? Tell me. What’s your daughter Ruth like?

She’s still herself, my mother says, very quickly. Unchanged.

Ruthie’s voice goes soft then, like the air in the room has changed. Am I unchanged? Fourteen years? Look at me, she says.

My mother shakes her head, an angry shake, and continues to eat.

Ruthie pushes her chair back, stands up, and says it again. Look at me.

My mother says, Really, Ruthie.

Just look at me.

My mother looks at Ruthie, and I can tell that my mother’s eyes drink her in. She loves Ruthie. After Ruthie ran off, my mother languished. She didn’t eat. She let her hair get oily. She didn’t want clothes touching her skin. She lay in bed naked. When Wee-ette asked her how she was doing, my mother said she was sick. She said she felt bruised all over. The doctor found nothing wrong. She was never really the same again. I look at my mother looking at Ruthie, and I look at Ruthie, too thin with sloped shoulders, her small nose tip, her blue eyes—and I hope my mother cries. I want her to go weak and give in. It’s what Ruthie wants too, and that’s why my mother can’t give in. My mother says nothing.

Nothing different at all? Ruthie says. She presses her paper towel to her lips and squeezes her eyes shut. You’d have to have known me, she says, really
known me
back then, to be able to tell if I’ve changed. Wouldn’t you?

My mother is afraid of Ruthie. She pretends not to be but she always has been. It’s too late for my mother to say anything. The moment has passed. Ruthie sits down and puts her paper towel back in her lap.

It’s quiet. The fridge clicks on and hums.

Ruthie finally says, Thank you, Tilton, for the little gift you left me.

I nearly forgot the string, our pact. I wish she hadn’t brought it up in front of my mother. You’re welcome, I say. I smile big and then dip back into my food, meaning I want her to let it drop.

My mother cuts her eyes from me to Ruthie and back.

I wonder how many pacts like that we had as kids, Ruthie says.

Six, I say.

She looks at me like I’ve answered one of those kinds of questions that aren’t supposed to have answers. She says, It’s funny that you still have it here, in the house, after all this time. This house is what’s unchanged.

I think you’d have to have known this house back then, my mother says,
really known it,
to be able to tell if it’s changed or not. Right?

Wee-ette is here. She’s with us. No one knows this house as she knows it, as I know it. A world is tucked in here. A universe. I feel a strange sense of calm because of Wee-ette.

I say, At night sometimes my body can expand so that I am the house.

I become its bony-kneed joists, dimpled plaster, clavicle attic beams, the vacuum’s one stiffened lung—ancient, puffed too tightly—the bleached toilet bowl. I’m all of it, down to the umbilical spiral of the phone’s cord, down to one shining sunlit dust mote.