Mathilda Savitch
“No,” Anna says, the total nun now. “The dress is on the inside,” she says, “and so who could look through it, no one but god.”
If Anna gets too smart I might have to stick pins in the head of a doll lumped up into the shape of her. If you added brains to Anna’s beauty it would be unbearable.
And by the way, Anna doesn’t even have titties. She basically has two anthills on her chest.
“Don’t you want to live forever?” she says.
“Heaven and everything,” she says. “A person like you has to believe in heaven, don’t you Mattie?”
I had started up Anna’s thinking engine and now she wouldn’t shut up. Plus I didn’t like where she was going with this conversation. Trying to get me to talk about private things.
Personally, I don’t believe in god. I never had any lessons in him like Anna. She got a bunch of information from her family and from Sunday school. I have my own beliefs, self-invented. What I believe is that there are people watching us, I don’t know who they are, they didn’t give me their names. The watchers I call them. They could be anyone. Who’s to say if they’re even human.
Anna kept talking but I just stopped listening and stared into the blue magic of her eyes. Anna has eyes, not everyone has them. Most people just have holes in their faces, it’s just biological, like pigs or fish. Plain ordinary eyes that don’t mean very much. Anna’s eyes are from outer space, they’re not animal and they’re not human either. I could kiss Anna sometimes she’s so beautiful. Blonde hair too. I only want beautiful friends, even though I’m not beautiful myself. My mother says I’m handsome. I look sort of like a baby horse. Striking is what I am.
I’m looking at Anna going on about her soul, but in my head was still that word. Awful. Awful Awful Awful Awful. Lufwa, if you write it backwards. I figure this out in my head and then I say, “Anna, shut up, listen. From now on,” I say, “I want you to call me Lufwa.”
Does she understand? Of course not.
“Why?” she says. “What does it mean?”
“Just do it,” I say. “Okay?”
“But what does it mean?” she says again.
If only she could have figured it out, that would have been the perfection of the moment. In my fantasy, the light-bulb goes on in her head and her face just starts beaming from the miracle of understanding. Lufwa, she’d say, winking at me with her magic eyes. Lufwa.
And by the way I’m not a lesbo. I’ve been told I have an “artistic temperament” which means I have thoughts all over the place and not to be concerned, Mr. and Mrs. Savitch, who are my parents. The doctor who said this was old and looked like a tree and he’s famous at the college where my parents teach and so they had to believe him. My parents have tried to become famous too, but they haven’t gotten very far. They’ve written one book apiece (academic not creative), but neither book made much of a splash. Both of them meant to write a second book, but they never did. Apparently they had a lot of hopes and dreams back in the old days.
When my parents took me to see the Tree, I didn’t say much. I kept what they call a low profile.
“Is she an only child?” the Tree asked.
Da said nothing and Ma said, “What about medication?”
The concern was over my tip-top magical thoughts. And because of the nightmares.
“It sounds French,” Anna says.
“What does?” I say.
“That word,” Anna says. “What you said to call you.”
“It doesn’t sound French,” I say. “Don’t be stupid.”
Anna sulks when I say this.
“Well it doesn’t sound English,” she says.
“It’s not English,” I say. “There’s more languages in the world than just French and English.”
“What language is it then?” she asks.
I can’t even answer her when she gets like this. “It’s probably not even a real language,” she says.
“Probably not,” I say. “You’ll never know.”
There is so little imagination in the world. A person like me is basically alone. If I want to live in the same world as other people I have to make a special effort.
I take Anna’s hand. It confuses her because she thinks we’re having an argument.
“What?” she says. She doesn’t trust me.
“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” she says.
“Good,” I say. I’m looking at her dead in the eye.
“Just say it, okay?”
“Please,” I say.
She closes her eyes. There is a pause a person could die in.
“Lufwa,” she says.
When she says it I have to laugh.
“Oh my god,” I say, “it does sound French.”
Anna opens her eyes and smiles like someone’s given her second prize.
“I told you,” she says.
“Lufwa,” I say. Suddenly I am the king of France. “La fois,” I say. “La fois!”
We are both laughing now and it’s almost like being a child again. Anna is only eight months younger than me but sometimes she’s like a magnet pulling me backwards. It is the glorious past of childhood and no one is ever going to die. It doesn’t even matter that Anna is a little slow. And really she’s not much slower than most people.
And besides, very few people have eyes from outer space, and it doesn’t matter if these people are smart or not. Angels, I bet, are not smart. I bet angels are dumb. But it’s not even relevant, the smartness of angels. The point of angels, as far as I understand, is something even greater than smartness. Supposedly it has more to do with brilliance. Which is light beyond anything we can understand. Like diamonds everywhere, in every bit of the air, and colors you wouldn’t even have names for.
Anna stops laughing and wipes the tears from her cheeks.
“I have to go home,” she says.
It is the completely wrong thing to say.
Because we are standing in that place where two people could stand forever, staring into each other’s eyes. And how often does that happen? And will it ever happen again?
5
At school today, first thing, I was told to go to Ms. Olivera’s office. She’s the principal of the penitentiary but you wouldn’t know it from the way she dresses. Beads and bracelets and scarves in her hair. She really should be out on the street selling incense.
“Look at me,” Ms. Olivera says.
I only look at the lips.
“How have you been doing lately?” the lips say.
Oh brother, I think, now we’re going to have to go through the whole story of my life, when all she really wants to know is why I slapped Carol Benton in the face yesterday. Which I did without really meaning to do it. It actually surprised me when it turned out to be a real slap and not just the thought of a slap.
“Why are you so angry?” O says. Who does she think she is, the Tree?
“I’m not angry,” I say. I wonder if she’s recording me.
“You slapped someone, Mathilda. That’s an act of anger,” the lips say.
The truth is, Carol Benton is the kind of person who inspires violence. Just the bigness of her face. And more than once I’ve seen her whispering with her friends and then they look at me. What’s the big secret? As if everyone doesn’t already know.
“Mathilda,” O says. “Mathilda. Are you listening to me?”
“I’m giving you a chance here,” she says, and she reaches for my hand like a pervert. I pull away and pretend I have an itch.
“Is everything okay at home?” she says. The same old questions.
“How are your mother and father doing?”
“Is your mother doing a little better?”
“Fine,” I say.
O looks at me with her X-ray eyes but I don’t let her in. I don’t know that I can trust her. I’d like to tell her how it’s been almost one year, and how I still haven’t seen my mother cry in the way mothers are supposed to cry after the death of a child. Ever since Helene died it’s like Ma’s joined the army. Is that normal? I’d like to ask.
“Can I use your bathroom please?” I say.
O nods and I get up and go through the door.
O has her own private bathroom. It’s not as clean as it should be. There’s a hair in the sink. I pick it up with a piece of toilet paper and put it in my pocket, just in case. On a little shelf there’s some air freshener, plus a tin of mints and a candy bar. Who keeps food in the bathroom? Disgusting, if you ask me.
Interesting as well is a bathtub filled with potted plants. All leaves, no flowers. Jungly. I pretty much have to force myself not to make the sounds of monkeys and tropical birds.
I flush the toilet so as not to arouse suspicion. I open the medicine cabinet. Inside there’s a hairbrush, lipstick, a bottle of pills, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. I take the pills, which are called Exhilla, and I put them in my pocket. According to the commercial, Exhilla helps you get through your day with a lot less worry. But the thing is, I remember last year, right after the explosion at the opera house in New York that killed a lot of bigwigs including a senator, Ms. O gave a special talk to the whole school and by the end of it she was crying into her scarves.
When I come out of the bathroom, O is smiling. As far as I can tell it’s not a lie.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I won’t do it again,” I say. And I ask her to please not tell my parents.
“You have to ignore people,” Ms. Olivera says. “You can’t let them get under your skin.”
It’s a sad smile. Like my father’s.
“You’re a smart girl,” she says. She stands up and I’m afraid she’s going to try and touch me again.
“Go to class,” she says.
“Yes,” I say, but I don’t move. I don’t move for about ten years. At least that’s the feeling. Time is funny lately, nothing to do with clocks.
After school Anna and I decide to go to Mool’s for a soda and curly fries. Walking there Anna doesn’t bring up Carol Benton, which is a big relief. Instead she asks me what I think of the boys this year in our class.
“Not for me,” I say.
“No one?” she says. Obviously she must have her own eye on someone.
Anna and I haven’t started with boys yet, not professionally anyway. But I have noticed that Anna is becoming a bit of a flirt. She has this new thing she does with her hair, a kind of a toss. It’s pretty impressive actually. If there’s one way Anna’s ahead of me it’s in this department. Flirting isn’t a brain thing, it’s an animal thing. But so is slapping people, I guess. And so if I can slap people I should be able to flirt with them. Probably I should give it some attention. I’ve learned a few things from Helene’s e-mails, most of which are from boys. The language gets pretty explicit sometimes. I can’t believe she printed them out, considering the possibility of Ma finding them. I’m adding bravery to the list of Helene’s virtues.
When you think about your body you barely know where to begin. Even just the words for it. Your bum is your bottom is your butt. Is your ass if you want to get crude about it. There’s a ton of expressions for everything down there. Your vaj is your cooz is your crack. Or your cunt if you’re really in the mood or you’re a slut or if someone’s trying to insult you. Boys have more words for theirs than girls, according to my calculations. Penis and pole and peter and prick, but it’s not just Ps. You also have dong and cock and stormtrooper and willy and sausage and you could go on and on if you had all day. Breasts and tits and knockers and boobs and if you’re an old lady you have a bosom, which is hysterical. If I ever say bosom to Anna she nearly pees her pants.
Once, a long time ago, I saw my father come out of the shower and he was naked. Ma was in the bathroom with him. I saw my Da’s thing and it looked like a carrot pulled out of the ground with all its roots and hairs sticking to it. I thought of it inside my mother, like putting a carrot back into the ground, back into the dirt. A woman is a garden, they say. I used to think flowers but now I think vegetables.
“Lonnie’s not bad,” Anna says.
“The astronaut?” I say. “He doesn’t want to be an astronaut anymore,” Anna says. “That was like three years ago.” She grabs my arm and drags me into Mool’s. Nobody’s there but us and we take the booth in the corner, which is our favorite.
“What’ll it be?” Mool says, even though he knows it’s always curly fries and cokes. He comes over to us, practically dancing from the pleasure of our company. Mool is the happiest old person I’ve ever met. Old people are funny, they’re either lizards or birds. Mool is a bird. When he drops the basket of fries into the oil, he goes squawk squawk, he can’t help himself.
To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind living at Mool’s. I wonder if there’s a Mrs. Mool hiding in the back. I’ve never seen her. Maybe she’s the reason for his happiness. Maybe they have the kind of love that lasts forever. Did you ever read “The Gift of the Magi”? Picture that couple about fifty years down the road, that would be Mool and his wife.
“Do you want to sleep over this weekend?” Anna says. This is another one of Anna’s skills. Mind reader.
Anna’s house isn’t as happy as Mool’s restaurant but it’s not unhappy, it has its charms. “Yes,” I say, “I would love to.” And suddenly I’m feeling so good that I think to tell Anna about H.S.S.H., but for some reason it won’t come out of my mouth. Maybe I’ll tell her tomorrow. Timing is everything, they say. I want Helene’s anniversary to be a special day. Who knows, maybe I’ll throw a surprise party for Ma and Da, just to wake them up. Ma and Da need a slap in the face even worse than Carol Benton.
Mool brings over the fries and suddenly I want to kiss him. I want to throw my arms around him and give him the smooch to end all smooches. I know it’s out of character but the thing is, it’s probably better to save my awfulness for the people who deserve it. It’ll just get stronger and stronger like the venom inside snakes. You don’t want to waste it on the wrong person.
6
When I got home from school, Ma was in the kitchen staring out the window. She had on her Chinese robe with the bridges and the dragons.
“What are you looking at?” I said.
There was a pecan ring on the table. Ma had already eaten a good chunk of it. Ma’s always been skinny and I want her to stay that way. Fat wouldn’t make sense on her, she doesn’t have the bones for it. Plus fat people are liars, have you noticed that? They hide things.
“What are you doing?” I say. She was just standing there.
“Pecan ring,” I say. “From Kroner’s?”
“You want a piece?” she says.
I tell her no, even though I’d love a piece. Pecan rings from Kroner’s are pretty amazing. My plan is to eat it later when she’s passed out.
I sit at the table and wait to see what happens. It takes about two hours but then finally Ma comes over to me.
“Your hair’s getting long,” she says, and she touches it. The feeling is electricity, warm, and maybe it wouldn’t have felt half bad if Ma’s lousy hands weren’t shaking. Plus the kitchen smells like cigarettes, which is her old habit back again.
I pick a nut off the ring, but I don’t eat it. I examine it like a scientist until Ma moves away. Suddenly all I can hear is the humming of the refrigerator. It’s like the sound track to infinity. I get up and whack the stupid thing. Ma flinches a little, it’s almost funny.
“Your father and I are going to the theater next week,” she says suddenly out of left field. The two of them never go out anymore, so it’s a little suspicious.
“What day are you going?” I ask her.
“Wednesday,” she says.
Which is the day before. The day before H.S.S.H.
“Is it a special occasion?” I say. Maybe Ma and Da have the day marked in their calendars as well, maybe I’ve underestimated them.
Ma makes a disgusted face and backhands an invisible fly. “Someone gave your father the tickets,” she says.
I ask her if I can come but she says they only have two seats.
“Can’t you buy another one?” I say.
“You wouldn’t like the play,” she says.
I ask what’s the name of it and she tells me, “The Moons of Pluto.” She says it like it’s the worst title in the world.
“I want to go,” I say.
I bet Ma doesn’t even remember that planets used to be one of my big obsessions. I used to have the whole solar system up on my ceiling. Glow-in-the-dark stars as well.
“I want to go,” I say again, but Ma doesn’t answer me. She probably wants me to beg, but I’m not in the mood. I’ll do the begging routine later with Da.
“I’m sleeping over at Anna’s this weekend,” I say.
“You’re not the only person with plans,” I tell her.
Ma just nods. She’s at the window again. I don’t know what she’s looking at. Is it trees she’s interested in now?
The silence again, I’m telling you, you can’t imagine it. All of a sudden I wish I hadn’t punched the stupid refrigerator. It’s the perfect moment for some refrigerator screaming.
Before I know what I’m doing I’m eating the pecan ring. I sort of make a pig of myself. I eat more than I mean to. Ma’s still turned away from me, and when she breathes it makes the dragon on her back look like he’s getting ready to shoot a big load of fire. I wish I knew what was inside her head. For some reason my ESP doesn’t work when it comes to Ma. I keep counting the breaths of the dragon and when I hear Da’s car, it’s music to my ears.
Ma moves over to the stove, pretending to be normal. She stirs something in a pot. Dinner, I suppose, though she hasn’t been too creative lately. Lately she’s the one-pot wonder. Throw everything in and hope for the best.
The front door opens. Luke barks from somewhere in the house.
“We’re in the kitchen,” I say, careful not to shout. But then I can’t help myself, I say it again and this time I shout. “We’re in the kitchen, Da.”
Just get him in here is my thought. Save me from the dragon.
Once or twice I’ve heard my mother and father having relations in their bedroom, but not in a while. Ma sounds like an owl and Da sounds like a sheep. When Helene and I were kids, we would catch them kissing in every part of the house. Da gave Ma the kind of kisses that linger, and afterwards she looked like someone who’d just had a bath. Recently Da has been trying to put his hands on her again but she’s not too interested. He makes jokes and tries to touch her but he mostly misses. Ma’s pretty fast when she wants to be.
Every night after dinner Da takes a walk with Luke. “Anybody coming?” he always says. My standard excuse is homework, and Ma is Ma. Other than work she hardly ever leaves the house. Lately she doesn’t even answer him. But my Da can’t help asking, he’s always been the optimist in the family. He’s definitely the one who could save the world, but will Ma let him is the question. Maybe she wants everything to come down in fire.
Tonight when Da asked if anyone was coming, I said yes. Ma looked at me like I was an impostor.
“What?” I say to her. “I used to walk Luke all the time when I was little.” I wanted her to know that some people can do more than just sit around and smoke cigarettes. A person can wake up if she wants to.
“Get your coat then,” Da said. He didn’t seem terribly excited by my company. It struck me that maybe he goes somewhere private on his walks and now that I was coming he wouldn’t be able to go there. Or maybe it was just his private thoughts I’d be interrupting.
We only walked around the neighborhood, it wasn’t anything special. A few people waved at us and we waved back. Luke barked at some dogs. One house still had a bring back our troops sign on the lawn and I couldn’t even remember if we still had troops over there. I guess we always have troops somewhere, due to the fact that it’s an age of terror. And then the funny thing was, I completely blanked out as to where “over there” was. Helene would know, she was very political for a person her age. Ma and Da used to be political too, they were big marchers once upon a time. But I guess they’re more selfish now. Death does that to people apparently.
When Da bent down to scoop up Luke’s poo I noticed a tiny bald spot on the top of his head. I realized I wasn’t exactly sure how old my Da was. I know he’s not too old but a bald spot, even a tiny one, is definitely a sign of time passing. I tried to picture my Da bald but I had to stop because it was like a monster movie in my head.
Luke stopped to smell something and Da and I waited. We were like two strangers at a bus stop. Finally I kicked Luke, not hard, just a love tap. “Get a move on,” I said.
“Be nice,” Da said, and so I gave Luke a make-up smooch right on his nose, which made his butt wiggle. And then I wiggled my butt the same way and Da laughed. When a plane flew by overhead Luke barked. It was dark up there and the plane’s lights were on. It’s still something that scares me. I wouldn’t mind if I never saw an airplane again my whole life. In our history book, there’s a picture of the burning towers. I was only a kid when it happened, but they don’t let you forget stuff like that.
I wondered what Ma was doing, if she was already in bed, safe and sound. I could picture her under the covers, naked. And I could picture Da slipping in later like a mouse. Ma sleeps on the left and Da sleeps on the right, and on both sides of their bed there’s a little cabinet. On top of each is a lamp for them to read by. And then there’s the inside of the cabinet for their personal stuff. When you’re married you can’t hide things under your bed anymore because the bed is shared property.
In Da’s cabinet there are books and also some photographs from a trip we all took to Concordia Farms to pick pumpkins. And every now and then there’s a magazine of perversion in there, mostly about breasts. Pretty much the women are alone and when they touch themselves they look like they’re in pain. Sometimes the women look right at you. Some of them look insane. In Ma’s cabinet are cigarettes and notebooks and sometimes a bottle. I don’t know why they don’t put locks on their stupid cabinets to keep people from snooping.
When people came to see the display of Helene in her coffin, they didn’t see Helene because the coffin was closed. Locked. I wonder who had the key. Apparently Ma and Da got to look at her before they closed it but I wasn’t invited. Supposedly her body was pretty bad. I don’t know if it was or it wasn’t. Everyone went up to the stupid box as if Helene was inside. But I wasn’t convinced. Death is a joke almost. You can’t honestly believe it.
Ma wore red lipstick to the funeral because that’s the only color she has. I sat next to her and she kept saying the same thing over and over again, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Oh god oh god oh god it could have been. But probably not, because she doesn’t even believe in him. Capital Him.
It’s funny, it didn’t even rain the day of the funeral. Nothing was right about it. Da’s brother made a speech but he barely knew his lines, he kept looking at a piece of paper. I’m telling you, the whole day was completely unbelievable. I know what funerals look like from movies, and Helene’s was a total sham. If it rains on H.S.S.H. I’ll be happy.
Well, not happy exactly. I’ll just have the feeling someone’s been listening. One of the watchers maybe. Rain is the least they could give me. I’m not asking for a miracle, just a little lightning, a few cracks of thunder. Is that too much to ask?
7
This morning, after breakfast, I went outside to smoke a cigarette. It was from my mother’s stash, which she keeps in various hiding places around the house. Ma doesn’t smoke anymore, that’s the story we’re supposed to believe. The lie of the universe, one of many. Ma doesn’t drink either, if you want to have the whole blanket over your head.
The cigarette is extra long. I decide not to light it, Ma will smell it. It’s just as good to hold it in your hand. I haven’t actually smoked a cigarette yet but I’m going to at some point, and how you hold it is significant. My way, I’ve decided, will be to hold it between my forefinger and my thumb, like a man. When you hold it like this you have a kind of power.