Marrow (9 page)

Crack!

The glass splinters straight across. I like the way it looks, so I hit it again to make sure he won’t be able to see when he drives. As an afterthought I look around to see if anyone is watching me. There is a mother a few cars away, wrestling her screaming twins into her car, but she is too distracted to notice me. I dig around the toolbox until I find a box cutter. Climbing out of the truck, I lower myself to my haunches, flipping the switch to draw out the blade. An old station wagon is to my back, and beyond that the field of lilacs. If the driver of the truck leaves Wal-Mart now, I won’t be able to see him coming. I should feel something, fear or anxiety, but I don’t. I don’t feel anything. On the side of the truck I carve the words: I DRINK AND DRIVE, AND I HAVE A SMALL DICK. When I’m finished I toss the box cutter into the back of the truck. Dusting my hands on my pants, I head into Wal-Mart to do my shopping. Until the windshield cracked, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding such a grudge. The minute the hammer hit the glass it was as if everything surged out of me all at once. Anger, so much of it. I decide that there must be more grudges hiding in me. I wonder what it would feel like to exact revenge on people.

My mother has left me a note to get cigarettes. I sit at the kitchen table and tap it with my forefinger as I stare out the window and watch a jay until it takes to the sky.
Cigarettes
,
it says. No smiley face to soften the command hidden in those neat, curlicue letters; no lopsided heart. Just
Cigarettes.

She is floating around the kitchen in her red gown—right in front of my face—but she left me a note rather than tell me herself. I’ve long stopped asking
why?
Why, as it turns out, is the most self-indulgent waste of time. There is no real reason for her to be in the kitchen. We are out of the crackers she likes, and I stopped buying coffee to piss her off. I’m comatose, watching the linoleum like it’s
Fargo
. I saw that movie once at Destiny’s house. We were supposed to watch
When Harry Met Sally
, but someone had already checked it out at the video store. So we watched
Fargo
instead. All that snow and those weird accents. It was just a different kind of ghetto from the one where I live—full of hopeless, worried humans. I’ve never met anyone from Minnesota, and I don’t want to. That’s what I’m thinking as my mother floats around the kitchen demanding cigarettes. I think about Jean Lundegaard. Running around the house covered in the shower curtain until she falls down the stairs. She was stupid, and she wore ugly sweaters, but she didn’t deserve that.

She wants her cigarettes, and I just want to sit here and think about
Fargo
. I wish I had a better movie to think about. All that snow…

If she asked, I would tell her about Nevaeh. How I’m grieving for a little girl I saw around the neighborhood. Children shouldn’t have to suffer. To be alone. To feel unloved.

I get up and walk out of the kitchen. Out the front door. I’ll go get the cigarettes.

When I walk past Judah’s house, he’s sitting outside in his chair, slapping at the bugs landing on his arms.

“Hey Margo!” he calls. “Where you going?”

“To say goodbye to Nevaeh.”
And also to buy cigarettes.

“Take me with you.” I don’t question him. I just walk up the pathway to his house and push his chair toward the street. He’s wearing one of the shirts I bought for him from the Rag—the one with the little hearts. It looks good on him, which makes me sour. I can’t even take him down when I try. He’s quiet as the wheels of his chair squeak across the pavement. One of his hands is up and under his chin as he looks off to the side. His eyelashes are black and thick. They remind me of broom bristles, and then I feel ashamed that I’m comparing a man’s eyelashes to broom bristles. He must have gotten those from his dad since Delaney is as fair as I am.

“Do you have your groceries and shit bag?” he asks me suddenly.

“Yeah.” I move my body so he can see it hanging at my waist.

“Good,” he says. “There is a memorial for Nevaeh, over at her mom’s house.”

I’m quiet for a moment. I wonder if he wants to go. I walk past the corner store where I usually buy my mother’s cigarettes and turn toward the main road. “Let’s go get her some flowers,” Judah says. There’s a Wal-Mart a few blocks up. I tell him that’s where I’m going. He points out a secondary pathway that’s not quite as bumpy as the one we’re on, and I wheel him over. As we walk, people call out to him.

“Hey Judah.”

“What’s up, Judah.”

“What’s up, man. You look good.”

“Wanna come hang out tonight? We gonna play poker, and Billy is bringing over his shit.”

Judah declines multiple invitations to “hang out” and tells them he’s going to Nevaeh’s memorial.

“Who?” they ask.

“The little girl they found by the harbor. Man, where the hell is your head?”

Their eyes darken at that point.
Yeah man, that’s some shit
, they say.
Fucked up, that’s what it is. That shit happening to a little kid.

Judah tells them to come to the memorial. He tells them she was one of us, and we have to go remember her.

Everyone knows him. They give me strange looks, like I’m the one in the wheelchair. It’s because they don’t see his chair. Judah is Judah. How large does a person’s humanity have to be to look past their big, clunky wheelchair? I wonder how large I can make myself so that no one will see my fat, or my mother, or my ugly face? Then they’ll call out.

“Hey Margo.”

“What’s up, Margo.”

“Looking good, Margo.”

I give the back of Judah’s head a dirty look.

We go straight to the toy aisle in Wal-Mart. I choose a stuffed unicorn, because I’d like to believe Nevaeh is somewhere better—magical. Judah wants to get flowers. He asks me to grab a bunch of rainbow carnations that he can’t reach. I hand them to him, and for a little moment our hands are wrapped around the same bunch of flowers. He squeezes my fingers like he knows I’m hurting.

“Can you hand me the roses too?” he asks.

He holds the flowers and the unicorn while I wheel his chair to checkout lane. After we pay, he hands me the roses.

“These are for you,” he says. A woman walks by, her arms loaded with blue and white bags, and looks at us strangely.

I must look dumbfounded, because he presses them into my hands and says, “I’m sorry about Nevaeh.”

I clutch the roses, my eyes brimming with tears. No one has ever bought me flowers. I try to be normal as I wheel him out the door and back into the street. I won’t let go of the roses even when he offers to hold them for me. I don’t let my tears spill, or my heart spill. Tonight is about Nevaeh, and I won’t be selfish.

Since the local news picked up Nevaeh’s story, there is a bigger turnout than I expected. There is a large crowd gathered outside the squat, blue house she shared with her mother and eight other people. I see her grandmother standing in the swamp of humans, crying into her hands. People have stuck letters and pictures into the chain link fence around the house. Nevaeh’s school picture is there in the middle of the chaos. I stare at it long and hard so I won’t ever forget her face. There are piles of teddy bears, and bouquets, and toys that her classmates have left for her—some with letters scrawled in little kid handwriting. I push Judah’s wheelchair to the front of the crowd so he can give her his flowers. He lays them down gently, in front of a note that says,
We love you, Nevaeh. You’re safe in God’s arms now.

It’s my turn next. I kneel in front of the fence and bow my head so no one can see my tears. It’s just a stupid unicorn from Wal-Mart, but I want Nevaeh to see it and know that I love her. Loved her. Love her still.

“This isn’t right,” I say. Judah looks at me earnestly.

“No,” he says. “It’s not. So what are you going to do about it?”

“Me?” I shake my head. “What can I do? I’m no one. The police—”

“No,” he says. “You know how the police handle things. We’re nobodies. A little girl dying in this neighborhood isn’t anything new.”

“The way she died is,” I say. “And somebody has to pay attention.”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away. “If only I weren’t in this goddamn chair.”

That makes me feel hot. I get a tingling in my fingertips, and I want to shake him.

“I hate to break it to you, Judah, but everyone in the Bone has a wheelchair. One way or the other, we are all fucked.”

He glares at me, I glare at him. I wish I could glare at someone and look as if my cheekbones were carved out of marble. I look away first.

The tension between us is broken by Neveah’s mother, who at that moment walks out of the blue house carrying a candle. There wasn’t enough money to hand out candles to everyone, so people take lighters and hold them toward Nevaeh’s picture. Judah lets me hold his lighter. It’s a pink Zippo.

“My mom’s,” he says.

“No judgment.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek; I’ve seen him do it a few times now. I sort of like it.

We all huddle around Nevaeh’s school picture with our lighters and tears. Someone starts to sing “Amazing Grace,” but no one knows the words to the third verse, so we just keep singing the chorus over and over. When the Grace runs its course, one of the local pastors steps up in front of the crowd. He hugs Nevaeh’s mom and says a prayer.

“She isn’t crying,” I whisper to Judah.

“Shock,” he says.

I look over at Nevaeh’s grandmother. She has people on either side of her, holding her up. She can barely breathe, she’s sobbing so hard. In the dim light of the streetlamp, I can see the tears smudged all over her cheeks and chin, the blue bandana on her head pushed crooked so the knot stands out above her ear. A grieving woman, her pain clear and sharp like the vodka I once tried at Destiny’s house. I reach for Judah’s hand. At first he looks surprised, his gaze passing over my face and then our clasped fingers. I don’t look at him. I fix my gaze straight ahead. He squeezes my hand and looks back at Nevaeh’s picture.

He does not ask me to push him home. He never does. Sometimes he needs help past the dents and ruts in the sidewalk, which I do without comment. Our relationship is seamless so that no one need feel guilty. I help him up the ramp to his front door, and he asks me to wait outside. I stand on the porch looking out over Delaney’s yard, her pretty flowers and bushes a shock of beauty down an ugly street. When Judah comes back, he’s holding a bottle of something brown.

“I’m too young to drink,” I tell him.

“You’re too young to have seen such ugly things, too.”

I take the bottle from him, my only memory of alcohol being that one sip of vodka Destiny and I took from her father’s bottle when no one was home. I lift it to my lips. The rum is spicy and sweet. I prefer it to the vodka. There is a pirate on the label. He reminds me of the Indian chief on my mother’s healthy cigarettes. Indians and pirates—societal derelicts representing American addiction. I’d much prefer their company to the rest. We pass the bottle back and forth until I am too dizzy to stand up, then we sit quietly and look at the stars.

THE EATING HOUSE IS OPPRESSIVELY HOT
. I carry my book outside and sit on the step. Mo is pushing Little Mo up and down the street in a hot pink stroller. He has his phone between his shoulder and his ear, and he’s punctuating every sentence with the F-bomb. F-bomb this, F-bomb that. The stroller has a wonky wheel, so every time he hits a crack in the sidewalk, it veers to the right, and Little Mo is thrown sideways, a startled look on his face. I watch him circle the block, past the bad people house, past Mother Mary’s house, right until he reaches Delaney and Judah’s house, where he turns the stroller around and heads back. When he approaches the eating house for the third time, I jump up and block his path.

I mouth:
I’ll take him.
Mo walks away without a word and leaves me with the baby and the stroller. I hear him F-bombing his way back to the crack house. I unbuckle the baby. He barely looks at me. I know there’s something wrong with him, but they don’t, and you can’t very well tell people that their baby has a disability. His diaper is soaked through. I find a spare and some bottles in the basket at the bottom, and carry him inside. My mother is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, smoking a cigarette, and looking out the window.
Look at you, wanting to see shit outside,
I think, as I kick the door shut.

“Whose baby is that?”

I’m startled by the sound of her voice, raspy from the healthy cigarettes. I haven’t heard it in some time.

“Mo’s.”

“He shouldn’t be in here.”

I feel a tingle in my chest.
What is that? Anger?
“Why not?” I ask, holding him close to my chest.

She glares at me from her cloud of smoke. “He doesn’t live here.”

“But I do,” I say. “And if you can have guests, so can I.”

I don’t know where that came from. But life has already made Mo feel unwelcome; I’m not going to let her do it, too. I carry him to the sofa in the living room, without checking her reaction, and lay him down. My mother follows behind me.