The Girl Who Ate Kalamazoo (13 page)

Audrey’s public thrashing was the first strike in a long, ugly war.

Grandma Pencil probably didn’t anticipate any retaliation from Audrey, but McKenna did. She knew her sister. After Bronson Park, everything changed.

A feeling of dread moved into McKenna’s gut, bringing all of its clothing, trinkets, bedding, and toiletries. Dread had settled in to stay.

On that fading day in 1988, the family wandered the downtown as three separate groups: Misty and Murray; McKenna and Grandma Pencil; Toby and Audrey. The arrangement fell into place without discussion or planning. It felt natural.

Grandma Pencil linked arms with McKenna. She pointed at the Walgreen’s pharmacy that had been on the mall since 1942. “Momma worked there for a few months, believe it or not, after the war.” She ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the State Theater’s “exciting new marquee” but expressed disappointment that Sinbad was a comedian and not a stage production about a swashbuckler. Grandma grabbed McKenna’s arm as they crossed the street. She let out a gasp. “You need to take vitamins,” she said. “A teenager needs meat on her bones. How can you even drag that suitcase?”

It was an old story. It was the eight-hundredth time she’d commented on McKenna’s weight. But on this day, her voice sounded sweet rather than scolding. She seemed concerned. She touched McKenna’s cheek, brushed off a piece of dirt.

“Muscles are overrated,” McKenna answered quietly. “There are other ways to get things done.”

Grandma Pencil considered this, her eyes flashing with admiration. She appraised McKenna with a long, significant stare, as if daring her to look away. “You’re more right than you know.” Her body was warm and alive against McKenna’s shoulder.

At that moment, McKenna knew that Grandma would never let her go.

The war didn’t start right away. Back in Grand Rapids, the routines returned. On the surface, life went back to normal. Murray sank into the basement like a donkey into quicksand. Misty reaf-fixed her sad smile and boned up on her solitaire skills at the dining room table. Because it was summer vacation, Grandma Pencil was unable to put the “hel” into “helping” at St. Monica’s and had taken to assisting the nuns at the convent: plucking weeds; mowing grass; sipping tea; chatting. Domestic duties. She invited Sister P.V. and Sister Maximilian for beef tongue and scalloped potatoes on Sunday afternoons. Toby had been hired for part-time bagging work at nearby Vogel’s Grocery, while McKenna continued the paper route she’d started when she was eleven. She was sixteen now.

“You’re the oldest paperboy in Michigan,” Audrey laughed. “What do you win for that?”

Her tone was an uncanny echo of Toby’s, but Audrey’s were far more cerebral jabs.

She lay lengthwise on the couch with a throw pillow beneath her head, sipping WD-40 through a straw and watching TV. Her leg stumps were crossed at the calves atop the sofa arm. Ringlets of yellow hair spilled over the edge of the couch, almost touching the carpet. Her teeth and gums were black—a bottomless pit in the center of a glacier-white face. Her rabbit eyes appraised a
Pee-We e’s Playhouse
episode without emotion. Above her right eyebrow, a painful-looking pimple marred an otherwise spotless face. Poor girl.

McKenna kicked her sneakers into the corner. She was sweaty, and her legs ached from walking. The Kalamazoo vacation had forced her to take three days off, and her substitute had done a lousy job. She’d had to listen to eight different customer complaints this afternoon. She ducked out of the press carrier bag and shed it like a pile of skin. “Grandma will kill you if she sees you with that,” she said, nodding at the can of motor oil.

“Yep,” Audrey answered. “And while she kills me, you’ll stand there with your finger up your butt.”

Her jabs weren’t always cerebral.

The Kalamazoo beating was still a fresh wound. Since they’d returned home, McKenna had been mulling over and practicing the phrases she intended to say in her defense. Now, she could remember none of them. She blurted, “What was I supposed to do? Knock Grandma down?”

“Of course not. You weren’t
supposed
to do anything. No one in this family is ever
supposed
to do anything.”

“I’m the one who mows the lawn, takes out the trash, does the dishes. I don’t see you helping. Except when Toby’s dirt bike needs to be washed. Wow. Tough job.”

“You’re retarded. You don’t understand anything anybody tells you.”

McKenna lost control. Her hands tremored. Muscle spasms danced across her arms. She’d never fought with Audrey, never wanted to fight, but biology took over. The loudest part of McK-enna’s brain told her to stop, to rush to Audrey, hug her, and say, “I’m an idiot, let’s be friends again, please let me feed you and be your friend.”

But rage had seized her.

She won’t even
look
over here? Won’t take her perfect eyes off the TV to
look
at her own sister? This was Audrey’s way, her small, petty way.

She needed to exert power over McKenna because she
had
no power. She was a gimp and a cripple and everyone hated her, Everyone except me. Oh, you don’t remember how I protected you? How I was the only one who thought your disgusting appetite was okay?

Audrey lay on the couch, sipping oil. Black-lipped and smug. McKenna dumped the contents of her carrier sack onto the floor and picked up a
Grand Rapids Press
. She walked to Audrey, mounted Audrey, and pinned her.

“Eat it,” she growled. She forced the end of the rolled newspaper against Audrey’s lips.

Audrey’s mouth tightened. The newspaper bent. Ink blackened Audrey’s upper lip and chin.

“Open it! Eat it!” I pinched her face. I wanted to make her scream and bleed.

She whimpered. She struggled and squirmed. Her knees thumped my back and kicked out my air. The oil can fell on the carpet. She slapped my head. She stared at me, horrified, as the newspaper shaft slid inside.

“Play nice, girls,” a voice said.

Misty was there, like an angel. So pretty in her nightgown, fill-ing the entryway. Her face sagging like a loose mask. Hair flat-tened on one side. Barefoot.

She padded into the dining room.

McKenna and Audrey had stopped struggling at the sound of their mother’s voice. Once Misty was gone, they looked at each other, panting heavily.

Audrey’s eyes in the sunlight are a fairy tale, the color of our daily umbrella. McKenna is overcome by dizziness. Audrey, on the cusp of womanhood, tries to smile with the rolled newspaper jammed in her mouth. (Is it really a smile?) A thin line of motor oil escapes her lips. Black blood.

She begins to eat the newspaper . . . gulp . . . gulp . . . down it goes.

McKenna feels the suction. A vacuum, a machine, a paper shredder drawing her in.

Audrey’s doesn’t blink, blue lights fixed upon McKenna. Telling her.

Lips working.

The paper is gone.

The mouth is closed around McKenna’s hand. Wet, warm.

“Audrey, don’t.”

She feels herself being pulled inside.

She screams for mommy.

Six bones were fractured, and her wrist was dislocated. Her right hand was cast-bound, so Grandma dropped by every day to do McKenna’s chores. Grandma even did the paper route for two weeks—not one customer complaint.

One afternoon, Grandma reached into her purse for a slice of cheese. She searched and searched. She dumped the contents of the purse onto the living room carpet. No cheese.

Not a problem, she insisted to Misty. She calmed herself with pretzels from the end table. “Odd, though,” she said, munching. “I put five slices in there this morning,”

The next day, Misty was roused from a nap to help in the house wide search for Grandma’s checkbook. Toby and McKenna were also recruited. Audrey watched from the top of the stairs, peering through the rails. The checkbook was never found.

A week later, Grandma’s purse vanished. “I set it where I always set it,” she insisted. Sweat drops gathered like shimmering paratroopers along her hairline.

“Mom, you need to eat something,” Misty said. She led Grandma by the hand into the kitchen.

On the couch, Toby and Audrey giggled.

Ten days later, it was Grandma’s shoes.

Early the next morning, seven nuns appeared on the front patch of grass. They sang “On Eagles’ Wings” beneath Audrey’s window. Sister Juliet strummed a guitar. They recited an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and an Apostles’ Creed. Their stockings got wet from the dew-dampened grass. Then they sang, “They’ll Know We are Christians (By Our Love).”

When they finished, they received hoots and hearty applause from three open bedroom windows—Murray, Audrey, and Toby.

Maybe it was the visual effect of seven nuns standing in a row on the grass below her window. Or maybe Murray had a talk with Audrey after the nuns stopped by. Maybe he said, “Cool it for a while, huh? Stop eating Grandma’s things.” Unlikely, but a girl can dream. Or maybe Toby told Audrey to cut it out, told her Grandma wasn’t a bad person and that she’d learned her lesson. Yes, and maybe a cat can learn to quilt.

Maybe Audrey plum forgot she was at war. Coddling’ll do that to a girl.

What ever the reason, Audrey didn’t eat another of Grandma Pencil’s possessions until 1990.

After Misty died.

Toby’s half of the bedroom:

Posters of bikini-clad girls, muscle cars, muscle men, and Bud-weiser. A bed. A stereo. A weight bench.

Always grunting, the
tink!
and
clank!
of the barbells, the musky sweat, the wet flatulence, the phone calls to his meathead friends (the hookup is mercifully on his side).

She saw him naked sometimes. She tried not to look at the bobbing piece of flesh between his legs. It was out of place, a transplant. It didn’t belong.

He was a beast behind that curtain, all growls and breathing, his laughs like mouthfuls of mud, caveman-ing to his buddies,
Huh huh huh, Uh-uh, Yup, Fuck, Nutsack, Rrrraaa, Feel the burn, Shit
. He raged, slapped his skin with aftershave, slathered his hair with gel, made a swamp of the room. Strutted around in muscle shirts that read,
Your birthday suit would look great on me.

McKenna’s half of the bedroom:

As sparse as a prison cell, exactly the way she liked it. Bare walls. A low bookshelf at the foot of the bed. A dresser, a portable radio, a dozen neatly arranged cassettes. She never competed with Toby’s stereo. She preferred her own thoughts. She had a window where she could sit and read with her feet propped on the same sill where she and Audrey, years ago, had made breath-faces on the glass. There was a desk with a typewriter, a digital clock, a basket for papers, and a reading lamp.

“Don’t you want some color in here?” Misty used to say. “You’ll go blind with blandness.” She giggled an actual giggle. Unreal coming out of her mouth, like if Snoodles giggled. “Don’t you have any interests, Mac? Decorations can show the world who you are.”

“I don’t need to hang my personality on a wall.”

“Certainly not.”

“Or hide it in the basement.”

“No!”

“Or wear it on my body. Big, disgusting bulges.”

“That’s not you.”

“Or in my pretty, pretty hair and eyeliner and pink dresses.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Misty nodded encouragingly. “But sweetheart, where
do
you keep it?”

McKenna scratched at a broken vein of wood on the underside of her desk.

“Mac?” Misty asked. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

Early 1990.

Mid-1990. She isn’t breathing. Her face is chalky. She lies on the queen-sized bed, atop the ratty green quilt. Just like thirteen years ago, when Audrey was expelled into the world.

Her right hand rests on her belly. The left hand dangles over the mattress edge. She went for a nap. The nap has taken her away. Naps always take her away . . . is this different?

Morning light saturates the gauzy drapes, provides fine detail. McKenna, from the doorway, absorbs. Misty’s lips show striations of dryness. Chapstick would help. McKenna checks her pockets. No luck. McKenna steps close, leans in. Misty’s nostrils are different sizes. The nostrum is bent to the left. Her eyebrows—not arched. Rainbows. Thin. Expressive. McKenna never noticed those eyebrows before. Did she? She never, not once, actually
saw
Mom’s eyebrows.

A brown mole on her jaw line. Bare feet, the toenails untrimmed, uncolored. Eyes closed. A doll.

Will she wake when her arm is touched? McKenna reaches in. . . .

Two paramedics arrive. Later, two men from the funeral home.

Murray stands in the corner, smoking and smoking and smoking. The left side of his Hanson Mold collar is popped. Again and again he touches his face, as if to confirm that it’s there. But his fingers, once they arrive, are unsure. They pull at his cheeks, scratch his nose, squeeze a lip, tap a forehead. In a soft voice, he answers the paramedic’s questions. He looks small and inconsequential beside other uniformed men.

The men act as if they’re afraid to disturb the dead. There’s no sound but Audrey’s wails from her room next door. Toby is with her. In a few hours, inconsolable, Audrey will eat her bed.

McKenna leans against a wall, sinks into it. The wall is a throat, the soft red inside of a throat. The air is soft. The light is soft. Life is hazy and not unpleasant.

As the two men from the funeral home unzip the black canvas bag and place Misty inside it, she opens her eyes. Blinks twice. Stretches her arms, yawns deeply, casts a sleepy gaze around the room. Finds McKenna and waves.

“Bye-bye, sweetie,” she says.

At nine the next morning, Murray finds Audrey asleep on the bare wooden floor of her room. She’s surrounded by empty boxes that had been gathering dust beneath her bed for five years—Barbie Dream Home; Draw’rifc Easel and Paint Set; Mister Microphone.

“Where . . .” Murray begins, scanning.

“No fucking way,” Toby says, muscling his way into the room.

McKenna peers from the hallway.

Audrey has never eaten anything of this size before.

“Are you okay?” Murray says. He lowers to one knee. His eyes flit and shimmer. He touches Audrey’s shoulder, his fingers live wires. “Sweetie, what happened to your bed?”

Audrey blinks, sits up. “I got rid of it. I needed a new one.”

“I guess you won’t be having breakfast,” Toby laughs.

Audrey, thirteen years old, doesn’t mourn. Not conventionally. Certain touchy-feely counselors would probably argue that she was behaving like a “normal” teenager. In the days following the funeral, she is brusque. She doesn’t smile; she d oesn’t frown. Either of these would show weakness. She crutches herself around the house in full-scowl-mode. She hates, actively. Hates the furniture, the trinkets, the appliances, the weather, the clocks, her family, the air. Perhaps she has always despised these things. Perhaps the only person she ever loved is now buried in a cemetery near the Grand River. Perhaps with Misty gone, Audrey is now free to make her feelings known.

Murray does his best “Dad” impersonation. He implements “daily meetings.” These are after-dinner discussions designed to help everyone get their feelings out, to talk about the loss, to remember Misty, to “re-inject joy into this house hold.”

Even Grandma Pencil is encouraged to come, encouraged to pray for Misty’s soul. “Because that’s what you do, Annabelle,” Murray says.

He’s being so polite, so diplomatic, so accommodating. And it’s the worst mistake he’ll ever make.

At Grandma’s urging, McKenna gets a referral and goes to see a specialist, a dietician.

“A girl your age should weigh one-thirty, on average,” the doctor says. “You’re ninety-four pounds. Your throat looks like a lobster. It’s a darn good thing you came in.”

McKenna doesn’t tell the doctor about the chew-swallow-upchuck, chew-swallow-upchuck. After all, it’s not any of the eating disorders they’ve warned her about.

“Lots of stress lately,” she explains. She recites the list she’s rehearsed: Mom passed away; recently graduated high school; boy troubles; social awkwardness; trouble sleeping. “I get nervous. I feel nauseous. I have reflux.”

“Do you ever make yourself throw up?” the doctor asks. “For any reason?”

“Nothing I eat ever leaves my mouth,” McKenna assures him.

A multi-vitamin is prescribed, as well as a high-protein shake and some pills “to ease your anxiety.” Also a referral to see a woman who specializes in eating disorders. “I’m not saying that’s what’s going on, but there’s no shame in making an appointment to talk.”

McKenna thanks the doctor, goes home, and stands in front of the bathroom mirror. She resolves to eat like a normal person.

No more of this sickness. Mom can see everything now. Even inside my mouth.

Well, she tried.

Grandma Pencil invites her friends to the daily meetings.

“They’re designed for the
family
, Annabelle,” Murray is overheard whispering when she shows up with nuns in tow.

“I understand,” Grandma replies. “Would anyone like veggies and dip?”

The living room is dim and cool. The nuns and Grandma occupy the sofa. Audrey lies on the floor, her stumps raised in the air, bicycling. Toby reclines in the mustard recliner. McKenna sits cross-legged on the carpet. Murray stands at the far end of the room. He distributes photo albums unearthed from the attic.

“This was Misty,” he says. “The mother we loved. The daughter. The wife.”

“I have homework,” Audrey yawns.

Toby flips pages. “Woah! Look how heavy you used to be, Kenny.”

The nuns, Sister Maximillian and Sister Pauline (a new one), politely peruse an album without comment.

Grandma Pencil forces a fistful of pretzels into her mouth.

“I think it’s important that we remember the Misty in these pictures,” Murray says, tapping his palm for emphasis.

“You apparently
want
me to fail my English test,” Audrey mumbles.

“She would’ve sacrificed anything for you kids.”

McKenna pretends to look at the pictures in front of her. In reality, she scrutinizes Audrey. She sees the disgust Audrey flashes at the ceiling, and, occasionally, at Murray.

“Is that
you
, Dad?” Toby exclaims. “God, you look like you’re twelve.”

“That’s our wedding day.”

“No shit. I thought the tux was for a rodeo.”

“Mind your mouth,” Grandma Pencil says.

“I always do, Grandma. I mind Tracy Howerton’s mouth, too. And Jessica Bly’s.”

Audrey snickers. So worldly, so mature. Does she even understand his comment? How could she? She’s never dated, never had friends who dated. Right? Not yet, not yet.

The nuns are miming rigor mortis, lips drawn tight. Their nostrils exhale musty lung into the close room. The bowl of dill dip on the coffee table glistens. On the mantle, the Sears-Roebuck faux-wood clock ticks. Audrey pops a gum bubble.

It’s time.

“Mom’s in Heaven, isn’t she, Dad?” McKenna asks.

Murray swigs at his can of Pabst. Licks his lips. He studies McKenna, assessing the tone and sincerity of her question. He seems to decide that it’s above-board. She’s always above-board. In fact, she
is
the board. That’s what they always said at school. Carpenter’s dream and all.

“You know I’ve never been a person of faith,” Murray says. He nods, agreeing with himself. “But yes, I believe Misty’s there. Don’t know why.” Manages a tired smile. Eyes are rimmed red.

(Poor Dad. He was collateral damage. But why didn’t you ever confess this to him?)

The nuns fidget as if the cushions are getting hot. Grandma’s eyes shift in her head. She glances at the penguins. They read her glance, and then make with some holy thumb-twiddling. Audrey, smelling controversy, props herself onto her elbows.

“Why
wouldn’t
Mom be in Heaven, genius?” Toby asks Mc-Kenna.

(From this vantage point, Toby is one enormous socked foot. Two gaping holes at the ball, flesh eyes.)

“Because there
isn’t
a Heaven!” Audrey says, cheerfully. “Right, Dad?”

Murray frowns. Says nothing. Push has come to shove, and he seems toppled.

“The Catholic teachings,” Grandma Pencil ventures, “are clear as glass.”

Sister Pauline, new blood at St. Monica’s, makes a noise in her throat. A winch being turned. “Perhaps,” she says, “this is a discussion best left for the adults.”

“Nonsense,” Murray says, his eyes finally showing recognition. He’s like Audrey but with a less keen sense of smell. After a momentary lapse, he’s back on his game. He has caught the whiff of controversy, and it smells religious. Even Misty’s tragic death isn’t enough to shut off this primal instinct. “Misty and I always treated the kids like grown-ups.”

There’s blood dripping from Grandma’s mouth, she’s biting her tongue so hard.

“And now they practically
are
grown-ups,” Murray continues. Gazes lovingly at his kids, the poor dolt. “Anything I can hear, they can hear, too.”