a Piece by Vanessa Saunders
THE GIRL HEARS A HAMMERING AT THE DOOR. ARE THOSE COPS, HER MOMMA
SAYS JUST BEFORE THE GIRL MOVES TOWARDS THE SOUND.
Two fists pound, again, just before the girl opens the door.
Two cops tower in the doorway. One skinny cop, one round cop. Both wear shaggy expressions. Is your mommy home, the skinny cop says.
In the doorway, the girl extends her finger to graze the black lines of a COLA tattoo on his exposed wrist. Skinny cop elbows her hand away.
She’s not saying anything. We should go to the house next door, the round cop glances at the doorway then at the yard.
If we are standing outside then it’s the right house, the skinny cop says, knuckles looped under his belt, adjusting his weight to his other leg.
No Ron, the round cop says, the paint is chipped, the lawn isn’t tended. He points to the front lawn behind him, overgrown, brewing with weeds and insects. A woman doesn’t live here.
The skinny cop looks at the lawn behind him, shrugs; the round cop extends his arm to stop him.
Bumping past the outstretched arm, the skinny cop enters the house and stops in the entryway. He puts his hands on his knees as he whispers: Young lady, if I go inside this house, will I find your mommy inside.
Invisible spiders hop up the girl’s spine, spreading their poison as they sink their pincers into her flesh.
The girl does not cry out to warn Momma, or lie about her existence. Instead the girl jumps back. Nodding yes, pointing them inside the house.
Melting into the wood frame of the door.
Allowing the cops to stampede inside.
IN THE COURTROOM, NEXT TO HER AUNT, THE GIRL STARES AT HER MOMMA IN HANDCUFFS.
The judge begins:
Today I address the guilt of a woman accused of sea gull terrorism. In advance, I ask any opponents of the court, who wish to deny the validity of the court’s opinion, stay silent at this time.
The defendant was accused via an anonymous tip. The charge: the murder of 30 seagulls. These gulls were found lifeless on the shoal of Blumper Beach. A careful autopsy revealed the cause of the gulls’ death as cardiac arrest, due to a foreign chemical agent, which the birds presumably inhaled through the air.
I’m sure this courtroom needs no reminder that a cell of gull murdering women has threatened our society and its natural order. The deranged women use backpacks to secrete toxic fumes, chemicals designed for gull homicide, which are not detectable by the human nose. They have waged a campaign of terror on our citizens. Simply, they are a threat to all that is good.
The accused claims to have been working in her office between 3 and 4pm on the afternoon of March 27th. But no witness can attest to her presence there. We have found a backpack with malicious holes, which this court worries was an instrument of gull murder.
On circumstances like these, I like to err on the side of caution. I thereby order this woman to spend a total of 20 years in prison.
Heckles and boos rave in the crowd; one activist in the back lets out a shrill shriek, Stop imprisoning innocent women. Members of the audience begin to stand and shout, except for the girl, who just sits there.
A little tear threatens to slide out the edge of her eye.
Outside, the courthouse lawn isn’t green exactly. In her aunt’s car, diamonds of sunlight on the dashboard. Streetlights, trees. The trees are tall and brave. The cool thud of her aunt’s voice says nothing. Alone, inside her house, the girl’s cries are ripped from her throat.
TWO WEEKS AFTER HER MOMMA’S SENTENCING, THE GIRL’S AUNT SHOWS UP AT HER DOORSTEP, GRIPPING THREE FLOWERS.
I’m sorry about your mom. Here are some petunias I got you.
The aunt hands the girl three petunias, with stems of varying lengths.
Thanks. Why is there dirt on these petals.
I might have picked them from your neighbor’s yard.
Bringing the flowers to her nose, the girl inhales the dirt of the garden and its accompanying scents. Wind, perfume, a little rot.
Is she really going to be in jail for that whole time.
Maybe, yes, no one knows. I miss her.
I know you do. Do you want me to chase you around with the vacuum cleaner.
No.
Ok. Thought it might be fun. She taps her heel and glances at the microwave clock, I’ve got to leave here in ten minutes. A tangle rises up in the girl’s throat. She swallows.
Do you want to go count the dead seagulls on the patio. The girl nods.
They do that. Two today. Warm sun on the girl’s face feels a bit like a slap.
The creak of the front door closing, when her aunt departs, the house drifts into a silence whose magnitude is crude.
THE GIRL STRUTS DOWN MAIN STREET WITH HER IMAGINARY FRIEND BINKY. BINKY STOPS TO STARE AT A TELEVISION DISPLAYED IN A STORE WINDOW. LOOK, BINKY SAYS, POINTING.
A spaceship is finally going to Mars, he says.
A space shuttle with POP’S COLA written on its side, gleaming. Astronauts lumber across the jet bridge in awkward costumes.
Binky presses his ear to the glass. 10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1….
The space shuttle shooting across blue sky. Yes, a whaletail of smoke. As the shuttle plummets up.
A white flame. Swallowing. The spacecraft.
Exploding particles of spaceship fall across the sky. Lost fractions of sinking white steams.
A mistake… the reporter says, gasping.
Or perhaps some disturbed female terrorists…
Camera pans across the stadium audience. Such long faces. Binky says, Let’s get out of here.
Together they walk to their favorite place, a diner around the corner from her house. The cook places a raw burger on the grill as soon as they enter. It begins to sizzle as she sits down, cheeks riddled with tears. Binky begins to play Tetris on his cellphone.
The cook in a smeared apron approaches her and says, What’s the matter. Terrorists, the girl says, they blew up the spacecraft.
Shh, the cook says, preparing her plate.
They said my mom was one. But I don’t think she was.
Terrorists would have no reason to blow up a spaceship, the cook says, laying a hamburger patty between two fresh buns and placing it in front of her. A woman’s mind is not hardwired to commit crimes.
Why would they call her a terrorist if she didn’t do anything wrong.
You’ll understand when you get older.
The cook sighs audibly as the girl munches down. Such forgetful beef. A sweet anesthesia soda. A long obnoxious straw.
1 YEAR LATER, THE GIRL WATCHES HER AUNT DANCE IN HER KITCHEN, SINGING INTO THE END OF A BROOM.
Come, come now, starchild… her aunt shrieks into the broomstick microphone.
Join me, she says to the girl. Her aunt’s frizzed hair flops while her body jiggles.
The girl, arms crossed, shakes her head. I don’t want to dance.
We’re not dancing, we’re cleaning.
From the closet, her aunt removes a black, dusty vacuum cleaner. Let’s make this place sparkle, she says, dropping the broom to the tile. When she powers on the machine, its whirr overpowers the music, temporarily.
You keep this place filthy, her aunt cries, running the vacuum over the tile. The girl goes to the radio and powers off the music.
Everyone at school says my mom is never coming back home. Is that true.
Her aunt smile flops into a straight line, and she pulls the vacuum close to her body. I was trying to have some fun. And I can’t talk
about that right now. Don’t turn off the music again, alright.
Instead of arguing, the girl freezes the scene. Her aunt’s long fingers and the smell of her perfume. No wind knocks up the girl’s throat.
The bushes in the yard whisper and rustle in tongues. Above the girl’s head, the ceiling fan clicks.
The girl finds herself stuck up there: floating above the room, twisting in the fan blades, comforted by its consistent rhythm.
Her aunt’s cellphone shakes in her hand as she looks down to read an incoming text. I’ve got to go. Sorry. Next time I’ll help you clean more.
THE GIRL GOES TO VISIT MOMMA AT THE PRISON. A SECURITY GUARD TOOK HER DOWN A LONG CEMENT HALLWAY INTO A ROOM FILLED WITH THIN WOMEN IN JUMPSUITS. CARDBOARD BOXES PILED HIGH WITH USED BEAKERS.
I don’t think they’re ever going to let me out of here, her momma says. The girl says, Auntie says after a few years they’ll reassess your innocence. Don’t say that, her momma snaps, flicking a speck of ash away from her right eye. But I’ve met some interesting people, heard some interesting things, in prison.
I brought your magazines and the books you asked for, the girl says.
The girl slides the package across the table, but when Momma doesn’t accept it physically or reply, the girl inhales quickly. Holding her bottom lip with her teeth.
The metal bench is cold underneath the girl’s legs. The room is too cold. The air conditioning blowing too hard, flapping the blackened tips of Momma’s blonde ponytail, disturbing the clusters of tiny ash flakes in the air.
Momma edges a fat book towards the girl, I have something for you, too.
What is it.
It’s poetry. Translated from Latin. There’s something inside of it I think you might find useful. The girl’s hands drift to open the thick book, but Momma groans, Later. She swats the girl’s hands hard, peevishly, staring at the guard.
Stinging, the girl’s fingers recoil into her palm. All the air in the room feels slow. Momma’s bitter complaints— tasteless food, unclean air, long hours stirring tubs of chemical soaked beets. The girl drifts away from the conversation, listening to rats scurry and snatch crumbs behind the walls. Pitter patter of their little claws. Then she is boarding the shuttle home.
Alone in her warm house, the girl parts the covers of the book. A wad of paper falls out. ARE YOU AN ENVIRONMENTAL
ACTIVIST, the pamphlet reads, A QUESTIONNAIRE.
TWO MONTHS LATER, THE GIRL’S DOORBELL RINGS. SHE OPENS HER DOOR. HER AUNT STANDS IN A BLACK VELVET DRESS WITH MESSED UP HAIR.
Her aunt parks herself at the kitchen table. Poking an emptied French fry carton with her manicured nail.
Can we open a window.
The girl pries open the window.
Thanks. I’ve come here for a specific reason. Ok.
I don’t have any groceries. Alright.
Lighting a cigarette, her aunt sucks and blows, sucks, blows. Daintily she rubs the end of her cigarette against the rim of a crumpled POP’s can, rinsing its ash coat.
It’s time we talk about the birds and the bees. I haven’t seen a bee in a long time.
I hope you never have.
I got stung by a wasp when I was younger.
Her aunt’s shoulders shake with laughter and then she stops.
I’m not talking about those bees. Different bees.
Oh.
Sexual bees. I don’t get it.
Sometimes a bee pollinates a flower. Then a baby is born. You should always use protection.
What do you mean, protection.
Her aunt’s cheeks flush and she readjusts the red leather strap of her purse.
Like, protection. As in a penis and vagina.
The girl shakes her head, trying to rinse the words from her ears. Do you want to go get a burger at the diner.
Just let the men do all the work. That’s my advice.
Ok.
They’ll tell you women are sick, but really it’s the opposite. They’re drunk on their power.
Who.
Men. She waves her hand, The government. You know what I mean. You were in that courtroom.
The girl’s legs roam beneath the table, kicking the air.
I’m not very good at this, am I, her aunt says.
Her aunt smushes her cigarette out with her heel and rises, Ok, now it’s feed me something disgusting. Let’s visit that repulsive little diner you love so much.
ONE EVENING, THE GIRL IS LYING IN THE BED, WATCHING THE EVENING NEWS.
A vessel carrying POP’S COLA products crashed in the Prince William Sound last night, the news anchor says, leaking 10.8 million gallons of COLA syrup into the artic. The syrup is estimated to stretch for 500 miles from the crash site. Though authorities think the crash was an accident, some activists on the mainland have been… the television sound grows mute, though the lips of the newscaster continue to move. Eventually the screen just startles black.
Stepping outside to take out the trash, she sees her aunt’s cherry red sedan screech and park in front of the house. Her aunt slams the car door, then grabs the girl’s hand, C’mon, let’s go for a drive.
Wide eyed auntie rolling down the window, in the car, gripping a long cigarette, not sparking it, she says, I’ve got some bad news, your mother is getting out of jail, she’s a little sick.
HER MOMMA IS RELEASED FROM PRISON TO DIE AT HOME. HER BEDROOM IS VERY HOT. THE GIRL SITS IN THE ARMCHAIR NEAR THE BED. WHILE MOMMA REACHES FOR A GLASS OF WATER.
Oh dear, my cup is empty. The girl returns to the room that peels in sunlight. A glass of cold cubes in her hands: an offering.
Momma reaches for the glass and stops. Lays back to breathe. Parting her lips slightly. Exposing her white speckled tongue. The girl is quiet. A potted plant, an accessory. Touching her thumb to her forefinger to remind herself she exists.
Momma’s eyes click over the girl’s eyes. Faint smile. She coughs. Two IV machines chatter beside her bed. Two machines pump liquid life into her veins. The girl says, Momma, please take a sip to drink. Momma says, What. The girl says, The water you asked for it. Momma says, I don’t want your water. She is flicking her eyes out the window. A palm tree floats on the lawn.
A mound of dead swans, their white necks twisted. Momma shuts her eyes and says, Our lawn is covered in dead birds. Momma vomits a baby’s fist of ash across her pillow.
Yes, momma, the girl says. Hot unsorted skin of Momma’s sheets.
Momma widens her eyes. The floor of her bedroom. Littered with IV baggies and dirtied nightgowns. Soiled bed sheets; trays for human piss.
Fuck you, Momma says, looking at the room around her. What, the girl says, staring out the window. Her bones feel bloated. Her head is heavy.
AFTER THE CORONER CARRIES HER MOMMA DOWN THE FRONT STEPS, THE GIRL HEARS HER TELEPHONE RINGING IN HER LIVING ROOM. SHE PICKS UP HER PHONE.
Hi auntie, how are you. Hi. Is she dead.
Yeah, she’s gone now.
I had a feeling: even in our apartment across town, I could feel it. Wish I had been there to say bye.
Wish you’d been there too.
I wish you had called me when she was going downhill.
I’m sorry. I know.
Hanging up the phone, the girl retreats into Momma’s bedroom, which smells like sick, piss, and latex. Lying in the bed, she breathes in her mother’s smell, which is no longer rich or human.
THE GIRL AND HER AUNT ATTEND MOMMA’S FUNERAL AT THE PINECOAST CEMETERY. DURING THE EULOGY, SEVERAL PROTESTORS SCREAM OUTSIDE ITS STONE WALLS.
Over the muted preacher, who delivers a brief synopsis of Momma’s life, was their absolute yelling. BITCH. TREASONOUS WHORE.
BIRD MURDERER. Struck by the persistence of the stranger’s insults, how their vowels rasp and strain, she concentrates on the preacher’s bedazzled robe. The sunlight shines and splits against the little gems. Spinach stuck in his teeth, the priest speeds up: Momma’s childhood: moved often: scientist parents: her own curious mind: love for all people: motherhood: academic success: a flourishing career as a professor of ancient texts. As the protestors’ wailing continues, the preacher retreats into silence. Momma’s wood box is lowered into its plot. There is no single goodbye, it is a series of gestures: dropping the pink rose on top of the cheap box, watching the dirt fall on the petals and wood, the little crowd dispersing. The girl walks between the gravestones, thinking of a type of death that isn’t physical. She glances back at Momma’s tombstone, which reads: SEAGULL TERRORIST.
HER AUNT OFFERS TO DRIVE THE GIRL HOME FROM THE FUNERAL, BUT SHE PREFERS TO AMBLE ALONE.
Trudging down the hill towards the sea between the fog; past the store fronts, persons, empty lots. When cars pass, they dawdle. When people pass, they don’t look up, noses glued to the sidewalk. As her thoughts speed out from their numbness. I want to understand why this happened. Maybe there is no reason why: things just happen. Looking down, the girl steps on the shoe of an old man. Baring his naked gums, he hisses at her. Get out of my way, he says, his wrinkles crinkling as he expresses his face. Wearing her face as a mask, she apologizes. There are no answers, just questions, in her mind they bubble and stir. The streets she strides down are the worried lines of Momma’s face. The sunlight is a memory.
Vanessa Saunders is a hybridist, poet, and fiction writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. She has been a finalist for the Seneca Review’s Lyric Essay Book Prize in 2020 and longlisted for the 2019 Tarpaulin Sky Press Book Award. Her fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and hybrid work has been published in magazines such as Seneca Review, Pank, Sycamore Review, Passages North, Nat. Brut, and other journals. She currently teaches writing at Loyola University New Orleans.
5 November 2021
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